


The Sum of Earthly Happiness

by Antiquarianne



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Erik and Nadir: the comedy duo, Erik's Persia Years, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Help, Historical Figures, Leroux-based, Not Beta Read, Not Kay, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, and so many original characters, erik is his own warning, in fact the slowest of slow burns, still suck at tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 55
Words: 153,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antiquarianne/pseuds/Antiquarianne
Summary: Tales of a young man's angelic voice carry far beyond the Russian fairground he sings at. The police chief of a whole province in Persia is sent on an errand beneath his station. And a  farmer’s daughter marries into the fringes of the Shah’s court. Three lives brought together in one place, at one point in history. It could be said that Persia made Erik into Erik, for good or ill. A tale of how even the darkest night can give way to sunlight.The Sultan's crown, with priceless jewels set,Encircles fear of death and constant dreadIt is a head-dress much desired—and yetArt sure 'tis worth the danger to the head?(Hafez)Chapters 1-33 follow Erik during 'the rosy hours of Mazandaran.' Chapters 34 to the end pick up after 'the whole affair of the Opera Ghost.'
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 101
Kudos: 46





	1. A Letter

My Dear Shadi,

I must admit to being quite surprised by your last letter. You have never before shown much of an interest in my life prior coming to my Europe—to be frank, you have never shown much interest in my life _after_ coming to Europe either. Of course, I understand this. You are young and beautiful, educated and cosmopolitan, and above all, staring straight into the future. Why would a woman such as you care for the strange past of an old savage like me?

Do not believe that I am being snide. I do not flatter myself in believing that I am interesting, though I have seen interesting things and known interesting people. But how such antiquated matters would be of interest to you—knowing you as I do— rather baffles me. Your reasons are your own, I suppose, and it hardly matters if you choose to make them known to me. You have asked for a record of my personal history, and I shall give it to you. (I wonder if you are already regretting your request? No, probably not. You've never given countenance to regrets, and in that respect, we are alike.)

My record will be _accurately_ given, but I dare not call it 'proper,' as you might view propriety. I am no longer accustomed to staying my pen or my tongue. For all that, I do beg your pardon if, somewhere in the following series of letters, I somehow offend you. It is not my intention. But I believe in truth for its own sake, even when the truth is not as beautiful as we might desire it to be.

Already I digress! I cannot quite figure where to begin. Coming to Paris is far too late for in the story to start—I was nearly forty by that time. My second marriage— the quiet years of my widowhood—my arrival to that amaranthine court of Mazandaran— all seem like too late a chapter to start the story. Of course, it strikes me as patently self-indulgent to start with something like "on a dark autumn morning, my mother bore me…"

I therefore suppose that the best place to start would be when Feridoon came to my father's house, seeking a wife.

You cannot imagine quite the stir this made in our lives. Feridoon was a blood relative of my mother, and that he sought for a bride within the family was not the least bit strange in of itself. However, he was also a high official in the Shah's court, a man of means. With his position and fortune, he could have easily made an alliance with any number of noble families in Tehran. Or, if keeping the fortune within the family was especially important to him, he had other, more cosmopolitan cousins to choose from. His bachelorhood was peculiar, though a wealthy man may be allowed his peculiarities. But that he was coming to _our_ home and made no secret of his matrimonial motives was so far _beyond_ peculiar so as to be rendered incredible.

I have no desire to cast my story in an overly romantic light, as if my family were in Cendrillon rags. My father was a landowner in Ghazvin and in possession of a sizable cotton plantation that easily supported our family, but Feridoon—Feridoon was something apart. My father could not help but feel the imbalance.

Nonetheless, he was receptive to Feridoon's overtures. How could he refuse? Before my poor mother died, she had given my father five daughters—and no sons. The eldest of our number had made a reasonable love match to a local merchant; the youngest and most attractive had become the second wife of well-to-do lordling. My father found some comfort in these matches but three unmarried daughters was still a source of consternation to him.

"I think we shall try to have Paniz betrothed before the year is out," he would say to me as we worked through a week's accounts, "and perhaps Jaleh sometime after that." Only once did he mention me, after he came through from a long and bad illness. "Oh, who shall care for my Mojgan when I am gone?"

I told him that I could care for myself and he seemed to take this to heart. When Feridoon came to call, it was my sisters who made careful preparations of themselves while I made careful preparations for the house. Not to say I was pushed aside in this matter—but it was taken for granted by all that either of my sisters would be a likelier bride for Feridoon than me.

Paniz was my older sister, and the greatest beauty that remained. Our mother's family had a touch of Nuristani blood, and it showed strongly in Paniz. She had elegant dark winged eyebrows that flew banner over blue eyes. For special occasions, she was in the habit of dying her hair with indigo, lending it a beautiful moonlight sheen. She was lively, but good-natured. A fine combination, I thought, for the sort of life I thought Feridoon led in the Shah's court. He had enough servants at his disposal to negate her poor housekeeping skills.

Jaleh was the younger, and as sweet and docile as a lamb. She did not quite have Paniz's beauty or my wit, but she was goodness itself. She was also young—just sixteen at the time, to Feridoon's thirty-six. There's a certain breed of man that always seems to prefer a younger wife, thinking that inexperience and malleability go hand in hand. I know that is not true for every young woman, but it was for Jaleh. She was earnest and optimistic and always taking pleasure in pleasing others. If anyone could turn a marriage of convenience into a love match, surely it would be Jaleh.

And I… I was practical, more so by nature than necessity. Early in my life I had developed an interest in things like sums and letters, and I liked learning the details of my father's trade. Slowly as a child, and then rapidly after my mother's death, I made myself useful. By the time I was seventeen, the household accounts were firmly in my control, and even my father's business ledgers were not forbidden to me.

If there was one complaint to be made over Feridoon's arrival, it was how little time he gave our family to prepare. It was a small mercy that he visited while the fields were still green, or else the honor of his presence might have been lost in the mayhem of the harvest.

Father made it clear that he wanted no detail left to chance. Our servants were good folk, but their idea of court life was stuck in the era of the Safavid shahs. It fell to me to make sure that Feridoon's apartment was well appointed, that the meal was the best we had to offer, and that my sisters were both being shown at advantage.

I cannot even recall the various little disasters that beset the day of Feridoon's arrival, but they were numerous. I remember that our old kitchen slave had become so nervous about cooking for 'a prince of the land' that she charred the lamb that was supposed to be the highlight of our evening meal. No amount of reassurances could sooth her nerves and I ended up taking off my brocaded jacket and jumping into the thick of the kitchen crisis. As it turned out, I was not even present to greet our honored guest when he arrived.

It was some time before I was able to make my way to out sitting room. I came bearing freshly made sweets, hoping to distract from my sudden appearance. The first thing I saw was Paniz and Jaleh, sitting next to one another like nervous birds in a cage. We wore our indoor clothing—positively indecent stuff, by your European standards. You probably do not remember the little costumes you had as a child, but they were in the same style—short, full skirts with silken blouses and heavily adorned jackets. The now-ubiquitous white tights were not yet in fashion, but anklets and henna were used liberally. I had hurriedly thrown on my white head-covering and best broach before entering the sitting room. I admit that modesty was not my primary concern. The previous, busy hours spent in the hot kitchen had frayed my braids.

I set my tray down before my father and Feridoon, and sat a little apart from my sisters. A water pipe sat between the men, but only my father seemed to be partaking.

"I think this is your other daughter," Feridoon began. His voice was unexpectedly mild. I do not know if he might have been handsome—I was too distracted by the astonishingly large scars that raked across his face. His eyes flickered up and then back down.

My father puffed contently. "Mojgan." He said nothing else, and Feridoon did not ask. His tea glass was half empty and I moved to fill it. He smiled vaguely at me. He later told me that I smiled back, though I have no memory of doing so.

The evening faded on; my father complacent, my sisters fidgety, and Feridoon quiet as a schoolboy. When the men finally set to dining, my sisters and I made our escape.

The kohl about Jaleh's eyes had faded—I suspected that Paniz had snuck away at times to reapply her own. Both seemed fatigued, and neither particularly excited. One would have thought that meeting a man of the great Shah's court would have proved to be more engaging.

I did not need to ask how they found Feridoon—Paniz immediately launched into a discourse on the subject.

He was not simply old, he was dull, and didn't know what the ladies in Tehran were wearing. He spoke in a too-quiet voice, and had too mild a way about him, and rarely even looked up from his teacup. I remember keenly her final comment: "And he only wears two rings!" (You must recall that it was the fashion at the time for men who could to wear as many rings as their wives—if not more.)

Even sweet Jaleh damned the poor man with faint praise. "He seems to be a… decent man."

I did not find this encouraging. Jaleh had said better things about the half-wit who ran deliveries for our father.

"He's _dull,_ " Paniz reiterated, "And he's rather ugly."

"I would not say he is ugly," Jaleh protested. "But his scars—like he did battle with a lion!"

Paniz snorted. "I do not think he is any sort of warrior."

I do not recall what else they said of him, but I went to bed with the impression that Feridoon did not favor either of them—and neither of my sisters would be putting forth any sort of effort to win his attention.

The days passed in much the same fashion as the first night. The neighborhood men made for a never-ending and little-varying stream of visitors. The women of the house stayed more or less out of sight. And so my own time spent with Feridoon was quite brief. And in that time, I found he was very like my sisters had described: he was decent, and he was dull in that he was not a keen conversationalist. His scars were distracting, but one grew accustomed to them. He later told me that he had acquired them when the Shah sent him to make inventories and estimates of the wealth in Herat—while the city was consumed by the war with the English. It was not a lion, but exploding shrapnel that had disfigured him. ("I had never a notion that accounting was a dangerous business," he said. "I now take care to warn all of my aides.")

One week turned to two, and it soon became obvious that Feridoon intended to set his suit in my direction. I had no particular opinion on the matter myself—I was not a romantic at that age. I found Feridoon to be tolerable company, and his position would assure me a comfortable life. You see, you have only known me as an older woman, accustomed to having my own way. I was much more practical in my youth. I knew the world came at a price, and Feridoon would allow me the means to meet it. I was right. Being practical on that one occasion gave me a foundation to escape the ill-results of my later follies, but, as I say, they are _later_.

With the infinite wisdom of youth, I did not question Feridoon's choice outwardly. Inwardly, I had many doubts. They called me Mojgan because I had fantastically long eyelashes even as a child, but I was not a beauty like Paniz. I had a good wit, and good hand with my pen, a head for numbers. A country man might have found of a use for me, I figured. I had always seen myself going on in very much the same life I had grown up in; a farmer's daughter turned to a farmer's wife. None of my talents were of the sort that won a woman a lordly husband. And, yet!

I think my father was rather disappointed when Feridoon asked for my hand. Neither of my sisters were of much help to him in the day-to-day affairs of his business. Feridoon was clearly also aware of this. He tried to soften the blow by providing me a more than generous _mahr._ Besides gifts of gold, he also deeded a quite few properties to my name, with the suggestion that perhaps my father could benefit from income of one or two of them.

Because of my father's high standing in our community, and because Feridoon was a man of means, our wedding celebrations lasted a full seven days. I do not remember much of that time. I hear this is often the case with one's wedding. Really, only one event remains vivid in my mind.

I remember sitting before the marriage _sofreh_ with Feridoon. I remember what was on the cloth—the tray of spices, the display of eggs and nuts, bread, sugar, honey, gold… but most of all, I remember the mirror. It was silver-framed and had been used at my parents' wedding, and my grandparents' before that. I removed the veil that covered my face, and just as tradition dictated, I looked into that mirror and the first thing I saw was my husband.

He was blue-eyed like my mother had been, and when he smiled his scars did not seem so terrible. He smiled at me in the mirror then, and I could not help but smile back.

We stayed at my father's house for another month following the wedding. After that, I fully expected to be taken to Feridoon's home in Tehran. That was not what he had in mind, however.

He took me, instead, to Mazandaran.

But I think that is a tale best left for my next letter.

I sign my name with affection:

_Mojgan Banu Khanum_


	2. A Contract

Summers in Nijni Novgorod were mercifully mild, but the tens of thousands of visitors at the Makaryev Fair seemed to overwhelm the weather.

Nadir, who was titled _Khan_ and held the post of Daroga in Mazandaran, stood some ways away from the fairgrounds. He observed the masses with a critical eye, well-practiced in the art of seeing dangers and assessing risk. Where to begin with this varied and variable crowd? He saw the costumes of dozens of lands— Indians and Turks, his fellow Persians and their cousin Tajiks, Pashtuns from Afghanistan, silk-garbed Chinese and the sturdy Slavs… The babble of languages blended into a strange trade jargon.

"Do you think he will be in the main exhibition hall?" Nadir's young servant, Darius, tried to keep his expression bland. He was failing. Poor lad, Nadir mused, for _this_ to be his first trip out of Persia.

Nadir shook his head. "I think not. He is a popular amusement, but he also speaks to the fears of superstition. He will be on the outskirts—perhaps towards the rear."

"Do you think he is _really_ as terrible as all that?" Darius asked. He had not yet learned the value of silence, but Nadir was sure that due discretion would come to him in time.

"No," Nadir confessed, "nor do I suppose he is as _wonderful_ , either. Traders deal as much in hashish as in tales."

"It would be quite something if it were all true," Darius commented, "a man with the face of a demon and the voice of an angel."

"I believe we will find this man to be little more than a simple illusionist," Nadir said, "perhaps a fine one—but an illusionist nonetheless."

"But, if—"

"That's quite enough, boy," Nadir cut him off. "I am in not in the habit of speculating. It is a bad habit for an investigator and I will not be drawn into it at this point in my life."

Darius was sufficiently chastised. "Of course, _agha_."

"Let us proceed," Nadir stated.

It was easy to be distracted once they entered into the midst of the fair—not even the most bustling bazaars in Tabriz came close to showcasing such a wide array of wares. Nadir supposed that there had to be some reason why this particular annual gathering had survived for nearly three hundred years, continually growing in acclaim and notoriety. Nadir found that he was compelled to stop every so often, simply to stare at some curiosity. He shook himself free of these fancies, always making sure to inquire where he could find his objective. Every time he mentioned the man in question, he was met by the same look of repulsed fascination. They all sent him continuing on his way.

As he suspected, the tent was back beyond the main exhibition hall, rather out of the way and utterly deserted for the moment. The tent was of a typical pentagonal shape, made of faded red Romani cloth. The front flap was drawn closed and a sign was posted in front of it. Six languages were represented in sloppy painted letters. They all read, _go away._

Nadir exchanged a glance with Darius. The young man appeared to steel his nerves and went forward to announce his master's arrival—Nadir held him back at the last. "I shall go myself."

There was no mistaking the relief on Darius's face.

Nadir approached the entrance of the tent. " _Salaam,_ " he said in a loud, clear voice. If the sign was any indication, the man inside had some small grasp of the Persian tongue, and Nadir would not underestimate the potential benefit of greeting this man with the word _peace_.

From inside, a voice boomed, " _go away!_ "

Nadir almost turned and fled, so commanding was the speaker's tone. But he was not a man given to sudden motion. He stood his ground. "I come from the court of His Most High Majesty, the Pivot of the Universe, the Shahanshah of the Persian Empire—"

" _And I have finished with today's performances! Come back tomorrow!_ "

The impertinent tone in the man's voice piqued Nadir's annoyance. "I do not seek a performance!"

The tent flaps flared open suddenly and Nadir came face to face with the very devil. At least the mask of a devil—painted red with great black horns and a grotesque smile of pointed teeth. Beyond that, he was garbed in a well-worn coat of Circassian style and striped trousers. His fingers were abnormally long and much scarred. He was not much taller than Nadir, but he was frighteningly lean and seemed to tower over him.

Nadir cleared his throat. "Are you… the Animate Corpse?"

"What?" The man cocked his head forcibly and hunched down a little. Nadir realized that the eyeholes of the mask were quite small, and the man's vision was likely obscured. " _What?_ "

"Are you the man they call the Animate Corpse?"

"I most certainly am not!" he exclaimed. "I am _Le Mort Vivant. Le Mort Vivant._ Say it with me: _Le Mort Vivant!_ "

Nadir obliged in repeating the odd, foreign sounds. The man was most assuredly mad. "German, isn't it?"

"French," 'Le Mort Vivant' said. "It is 'the Living Death,' not the 'Animate Corpse.' The 'Animate Corpse' in French would be—"

"But you are he?" Nadir asked. "You sing."

"You mean: in spite of my terrible face, I sing?" The Living Death cackled beneath his mask. "Yes, I do!"

"I have been sent to meet you—to ascertain the truth of your… glorious voice—"

"And heinous visage, yes."

Nadir continued on, as if the interruption had not occurred. "And if the reports are proved to be correct, to bring you to the illustrious Court of my Master, His Most High—"

"— _Majesty, the Pivot of the Universe, the Shahanshah of the Persian Empire, Naser al-Din, Shah Qajar, He Who Defers to His Most Royal Mama at Most Every Turn—_ "

Nadir was horrified to hear his own voice issue forth from the demonic mask. His dismay must have shown, for the monster soon started laughing. It was a strange, shrill laugh, accompanied by an excessive shaking of the man's thin shoulders.

"Oh, you should see your face," the man was still laughing, and it became difficult to think of him by his assumed appellation, "oh, that was just too funny." He straightened his posture and waved Nadir away. "I have no desire to go to the illustrious court of your Most High Master. Goodbye, Errand Boy." He inclined his head towards Darius, "Errand Boy's Errand Boy." He turned on his heel to return to the tent, but Nadir reached out to stop him.

Long years in the Shah's service, which frequently brought Nadir in close contact with all manner of unsavory elements, had lent Nadir good instincts. At this point in his life, he rarely underestimated an opponent. He had looked at the masked man and figured that they were at least on par— more than likely, Nadir was in the better physical condition. He was wrong.

An instant after he had grasped the man's wrist, Nadir was flat on his back on the cold ground. Darius gave a little exclamation of distress but the masked man easily batted him away. He leaned over Nadir's sprawled form and whispered, "No desire whatsoever." He unbent himself and went into his tent.

"You haven't even heard the terms," Nadir called after him. "There is money to be had— you could live in a palace!"

" _You mean serve in a palace,_ " the man's voice emerged disembodied in Nadir's ear. " _No thank you!_ "

Nadir carefully rolled off of his back, "Are you really pleased to live in a rat-edged tent?"

" _I have done very well for myself over the years, thank you!_ "

"Ha! I find it hard to believe that you care to display yourself to this throng of savages. My master is not interested in your face—just your voice. I hear that your voice is unusually fine."

" _Fine?_ " The man came out of the tent again. This time, his mask was far less startling: plain black broadcloth, stitched to mimic the contours of the face. "Fine? My voice is that of an _angel's._ "

Nadir fastidiously brushed the dirt from his clothing. "As they say."

"You don't believe it," the man accused him.

Nadir heaved a sigh. "I have been sent on too many of these… errands. Mind you, I only pursue those that appear to have real merit, but still—I have yet to meet the 'marvel' that lives up to the stories told."

With his new mask, Nadir could almost make out the man's eyes. They were a strange, sickly yellow color and appeared to be set too deeply in his face. They narrowed, and a moment later, he began to sing.

Nadir froze in his place. He thought of the tuneful recitations of Koranic verses—they were supposed to surpass simple music, to be something sublime. Nadir had often found that to be the case, when a thousand men all raised their voices in reverence. But _this_ —this surpassed the sublime. Was that even possible? Apparently, it was.

Nadir tried to remember what the song had been, once the last note had faded in the air. He could not—he could only remember feeling as if his soul had been rent from his flesh and made to soar over the rolling Caspian Sea. He almost resented when the song ended and the feeling departed with it.

The man's bearing was self-satisfied in the extreme. "You see? Angelic. Oh—this will be good. You will return to your Master. He will ask, _now Errand Boy, did you hear the voice of the Living Death?_ And you will say—" again he assumed Nadir voice—" _Why, yes, Master of Heaven and Earth! And it was far greater than the silk traders in their opium haze would have led us to believe._ And then he will ask, _Then where is this angel, fallen from the heights of heavenly glory to bestow his song upon the undeserving masses?_ And then _you_ will say, _Why, Sir, he told me that some of the masses were more undeserving than others, and you in your Imperial Greatness, are one of the least deserving of all…_ " He laughed again, "Oh, wouldn't that be _grand?_ You would lose your head, wouldn't you? They do lop off heads in Persia, don't they?"

Nadir motioned to Darius, who handed over his satchel. "On occasion. But why let it come to that?" He opened the bag and reached in. He dropped one bar of silver at the man's feet. "For your compliance in confirming the tales."

"Compliance? That was not compliance! That was—"

Nadir let another bar fall to the ground. "This is to settle whatever affairs you might have in Russia."

"Ha! I owe no man money—"

"Then consider it pocket change," Nadir grumbled. He added a third bar to the pile. "This will be for the incidentals on your journey to Persia—of course, the actual expense of the trip will be covered by my hand."

"You're rather sure of yourself, Persian," he replied. To his credit, he did not scramble to retrieve the small fortune set at his feet. He barely even glanced at it.

Nadir turned over the satchel and let another two silver bars and a mass of gold coins fall to the ground. "This is an advance. A _small_ advance."

The man's voice took on a contemplative tone. " _Very_ sure of yourself."

Nadir simply stood and let the offer speak for itself. He was gratified when the masked man started to pace, muttering to himself darkly. "I am sure, of course, that you have _terms._ "

"Terms? _Terms?_ "

"Do you realize that you are in the habit of repeating yourself?" Nadir asked. He was feeling marginally more confident of success now. "Your words might make more of an impact if you resisted the impulse."

He came to a halt, looked at Nadir, looked at the money, and finally marched back into his tent. "Go away!"

After some hesitation, Nadir decided to leave the pile of gold and silver where it was. "Come along, Darius. We will return—tomorrow!"

Oh, how little he looked forward to _that_ dawn.

* * *

It was the simple weight of duty that made Nadir return to the Makaryev Fair. He had no desire to deal with the strange masked man again, but, unfortunately, they did 'lop off heads' in Persia. He saddled Darius with another bag heavy with money and set off for the ragged tent.

This time, there was a crowd surrounding it, and Nadir could hear the man's siren song from a distance. It wasn't quite the ethereal tune he had sung yesterday—in fact, if Nadir was not mistaken, it was a rather bawdy Russian drinking ditty. It was somehow elevated from the gutter it belonged in, thanks to the singer's exceptional technique. The Living Death, indeed. Nadir pushed through the crowd to the front.

The mask had been discarded, and his face _was_ horrible. The man's eyes flickered over to Nadir and he smiled. The gesture did not affect the song in the least, but it rendered his face utterly monstrous. Nadir felt bile rise in his throat, and fought to keep it down. Others had not been able to acquit themselves quite so well. The Living Death really did live up to his sobriquet— his eyes all but disappeared into their deep sockets, and his cheeks were sunken in like a skeleton. The macabre illusion continued onto his bare chest—his collar bones stuck out sharply and his ribs were clearly defined. His belly was concave and his arms looked brittle, though there were hints of the strength that Nadir had unfortunately already experienced.

He finished the song that had so entranced his audience, and they all took an instinctive step backwards as the spell was broken. Only Nadir stood his ground, though he was tempted to retreat as well.

The man slipped on his devil's mask again. "That's it for today! Go away! _Go!_ " The crowd dispersed almost instantly. Nadir gave the man a moment to put his shirt and coat back on before approaching him.

"How did you do?" Nadir asked conversationally.

He picked up one of the coins earned by the song and effortlessly flipped it in the air. "Well enough. I assume you are here to collect your little showpiece? I admit, I was tempted to keep a few coins, but you will find them all present and accounted for."

"Keep it all," Nadir pressed. "Admit this—if it was tempting to keep a coin, was it not tempting to keep the entire fortune?"

The man spread his arms in a theatrically wide gesture. "I am a mere mortal, believe it or not."

"I believe it," Nadir said, "I believe, in fact, that you are a rather young mortal. What are you? Nineteen? Twenty?"

The man's voice took on an oddly high singsong tone. "I am an ageless mere mortal. Isn't that funny? I'll stay in this form until one day— _poof!_ " A cloud of sparkling smoke surrounded his form. After a moment, he coughed and waved away the remnants of the trick. He giggled again. "Well, I suppose I won't disappear just yet. What a pity."

"Perhaps."

He sighed dramatically, before settling into a posture Nadir could only call an _aggressive sulk_. His arms were crossed tightly and protectively in front of him, but the chin of the mask jutted out in defiance. "I want a contract."

"Pardon?"

"A contract. You know, a piece of paper with pretty writing on it that states the particulars of an arrangement," the man said. "I want one. I want it to guarantee my freedom, both in body and creative pursuits. I want it to detail my compensation." In a smaller voice he asked, "I want books as part of said compensation. Can you do that?"

Nadir nodded. "Yes. What do I call you?"

"What?"

"What is your _name?_ " Nadir asked. "I don't intend on drawing up a contract for 'Le Mort Vivant' Transliteration is an unwieldy art, as I am sure you know."

"What's _your_ name?" the man countered.

"Nadir. The Daroga of Mazandaran."

He snorted. "I suppose Mazandaran does not have much in the way of crime, if you could be spared to come and get _me._ "

"I am rather competent at my job," Nadir demurred.

"I'll be ready to leave tomorrow." He turned to return to his tent. "Until then, Daroga."

"Your _name,_ " Nadir insisted. "I need it for this contract of yours."

He paused at the entrance, "I suppose you may call me… Erik. Yes, we'll say that. Erik. Erik shall go to Persia with you. Won't Erik and Nadir have a marvelous time?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned before, I've never read Kay's Phantom. But Nadir Kahn* seems to have become a default for the good Daroga's name, and I have decided to roll with it.
> 
> *Though 'khan' is by definition a title and not a name. We'll deal with that later.


	3. A Journey

A bar of fine Persian silver would have been sufficient to attire Erik in silks for a year. It was a tempting thought, for he had an innate love of fine things, but he had seen ugly men swagger about in neat tailoring before. It did nothing to help _them,_ and none were as hideous as Erik was. He contented himself with two new coats and a pair of good boots. Of the coats, one was a cherkesska of black wool, complete with fourteen capped cartridge cases. Only two were filled with anything as blasé as gunpowder. The rest were tricks of his trade—though if pressed for an answer, he could not say just _what_ that trade was. The other coat was in a similar style, red, and Erik developed an immediate fondness for it. It was garish in all the ways he liked best.

He wore his fine coats despite the weather, which grew ever warmer as they neared Persia.

The Daroga had tried to provide him with a more _suitable_ wardrobe, but Erik resisted. The Daroga was an unforgivable meddler, and Erik thought it best that the dour man with the jade eyes _quickly_ learn that Erik would not suffer _meddling_ in his affairs with grace. He said as much to the Daroga at the onset of their journey.

The Persian merely offered a tight smile. "Everyone will try to meddle with you, Erik," he said, "and many will succeed. So you might as well be comfortably dressed."

Erik had not replied, though he did use one of his cartridge cases to conjure a small cloud of red smoke and deftly procured his hand fan behind the distraction.

Darius, the errand boy, had stared in wonder as Erik flicked the fan with easy, elegant motions. The Daroga had rolled his eyes and sniffed. Erik could not help but laugh when the man then started to sneeze.

They continued in this manner for most of the journey, with the Daroga occasionally making overtures of friendship that quickly devolved into lectures. The man was surprisingly adept at scuttling through bits of three or four languages to make a point. Or, if not a point, than at least a prod. The good Daroga appeared to delight in _prodding,_ much to Erik's irritation _._ It had been a mistake to admit to being French—it was amazing how much material the man could derive from that one small fact.

"Have you heard much news from France?" the Daroga asked. When Erik declined to reply, he continued on. "The newspapers from Paris are regularly delivered to Tehran. You may enjoy reading them."

"Hmm," Erik replied. "Yes, who wouldn't be simply dying for eight-month old society columns?"

"The Shah will be most pleased—he speaks French fluently and is a regular correspondent of his Imperial Majesty Napoleon the Third."

"Ah."

"Do you perhaps have family you would like to communicate your new circumstances to? The Baron de Pichon is the chargé d'affaires for the French Embassy, and I am sure that passage for letters can be easily arranged."

Boredom prompted Erik to action. "Pichon, you say?" Erik exclaimed, clapping his hands together, "ah! All is well if _Pichon_ is there!"

Nadir started. "You know the Baron?" It was to his credit that he did not sound convinced.

"What do you think, Daroga?"

The Daroga was silent for all of three minutes before launching into a monologue about the current political balance Persia maintained with England, France, and Russia. Erik was half-astonished that the man would exert so much effort in trying to educate him—but not so astonished that he felt compelled to listen.

By the time they reached their destination, Erik was seriously considering how many, many ways Nadir Khan might meet with an unpleasant end. The feeling appeared to be mutual.

"I shall be glad to be rid of you," the Daroga sniffed. It was a habit of his, when he was being especially sanctimonious, or thought Erik to be particularly childish. It was fast becoming an invasive part of his manner. "I shall be glad when my Imperial Master tires of you and casts you out as the villain I know you to be."

Erik grinned under his broadcloth mask and spooked the Daroga's horse just as it was being handed off to a groom.

The Daroga cursed wildly and a bit too colorfully for Erik to follow. Later, he would hear whispers that the Daroga had been beset by a wicked spirit—after all, how else did a man as _infamous_ for his calm and cool nature as Nadir Khan become so prone to losing his temper?

Wicked spirit, indeed! Well, it wasn't as if Erik had not heard that one before. A very familiar epitaph, that. In a roundabout way, it made Erik feel as if he was home.

* * *

The introduction to the Shah was delayed three times, which gave Erik ample time to stalk about the palace, observing and learning how to stay hidden in this place.

They were not in Tehran, Erik soon learned, but in the Shah's seaside retreat of Mazandaran.

Erik was not impressed. The palace was in dire need of remodel—repairs _were_ being made, but in an unforgivably slapdash fashion. Not to mention that all of the new work was being done after the European fashion, which clashed awfully with the native architecture and the landscape.

It was rather tragic, given the astonishing blue of the ocean and the almost monstrous green of the mountains. Erik would have built a marble palace instead, all pure white stone. Something striking, but still very much as part of the landscape. It would look like a fairyland in the mists and fogs that were captured between the sea and mountains; like an oasis during the blaring heat of the day.

Then again, if Erik could have rebuilt the entire _court_ , the people as well as the buildings, he would have. For the most part, he found it aesthetically offensive and criminally lacking in vision. But, well, that was mankind for you, wasn't it?

When the time for his audience with the Shah Qajar finally came, Erik waffled between dreading the interview and looking forward to pointing out two or ten things the man had done unforgivably wrong. The building itself, of course, and the placement of the guards for another. And, lest he forget, the criminal abuse of a sitar he heard coming over the wall of the women's' enclave…

"Do not say anything to embarrass me." The Daroga had been in hiding ever since he had handed Erik over to the cowering household staff, but now reappeared as Erik's official escort. He wore an emerald and sliver aigrette pinned to his turban, which looked ridiculous on him. "And don't say anything that could get me killed!"

Erik splayed his long fingers over his heart in mock dismay. "Get you killed, Daroga? You were a charming traveling companion—all those fine meals of pork belly, and the gossip about the military commanders, and that delightful luncheon with the Russians—"

"You may fancy yourself a wit," the Daroga growled, "but the walls have ears here, and not much sense of levity."

"Well perhaps I would be more aware of such things if you had not abandoned me," Erik replied. He pitched his voice mystically low and let it echo off the far wall. "A young man—alone in the world—friendless—is compelled to set his fate in the hands of a diabolic messenger who promises him safety and riches but instead leaves him to fend for himself in the den of jackals…"

"I never promised that you would be safe," the Daroga pointed out. "I am not a liar."

Erik prepared to mock him on this last point, but instead found himself ushered into the audience chamber. It was much the same as the rest of the palace—the native opulent taste being eaten alive by European fads, a mass of people caught between piety and dissolution.

Erik wore his black coat today, and his black mask, so that he stood like a pillar of cloud in the midst of a riot of rainbows. Every eye locked on him.

He stood where he was told to stand, bowed when he was prompted to bow, all the while loathing himself for playing along.

Naser al-Din Shah was not difficult to spot, and Erik kept his eyes fixed on the man. He was in his mid-thirties at least, with a moustache that drooped in two limp tuffs. Not an impressive man in of himself, but he lounged in his ornate chair as only a man in full control of his destiny could, and there was a curl to his lip that suggested he was unaccustomed to being denied anything. The curl quirked into something like a smile when he met the Daroga's eyes.

"Ah, Nadir! Continually cementing your worth, are you? Keeping my paradise safe and still finding time to bring the world to me?"

"The whole world lies at your feet, my Lord," the Daroga replied. The words sounded awkward coming from the Daroga, Erik thought. The language was formal in the extreme, he fancied, and the grandiosity of the idea went against everything Erik had come to expect from Nadir. On the one hand, the hypocrisy disgusted him. On the other hand… well, Erik knew a script when he heard one. A part of him half-pitied the Daroga for being so poorly cast.

"Well, what _have_ you brought me, then?" the Shah asked.

"That which you sent me to seek," the Daroga replied, "the man with the voice of heaven."

"What is it that he is called again?" Never once did the Shah spare a glance for the rain cloud standing before him.

"He is called Erik." The Daroga paused and then managed not to stumble over the words: " _le Mort Vivant._ "

The Shah gave a sudden bark of laughter and turned to face Erik fully. Then, with the most appalling accent Erik had ever heard French beset by, said: "A Frenchman, are you! How delightful! I've always had a sort of affection for you French. What are you, Parisian? Well?"

Erik replied in Persian. "No, sir. From a small village in Normandy."

"Normandy? On the Channel, then. A number of Roman ruins, yes? Have you seen them?"

"Some." Erik felt no compulsion to point out that he had not been in France since his childhood. There were too many questions to be asked along that path.

The Shah turned back to the Daroga and switched, mercifully, back to Persian. "Fine work, Khan Agha. Really quite excellent. A Frenchman who speaks with a Persian tongue! Now, he is the one that is rumored to be as ill-favored in face as he is blessed in voice, yes?"

Erik caught the movement of Nadir's tight nod out of the corner of his eye.

"And the voice is wonderful?"

Another nod.

"Excellent!" He turned to Erik. "Remove your mask then, my good man."

Erik could feel his chest constrict and his hands bind into fists seemingly of their own accord. He sought out avenues of escape and calculated which would be his best option. They were actions born out of a lifetime of being cornered and outnumbered, now as natural and automatic as breathing. He desperately clamped down on the feeling. One hand relaxed and his breathing regulated.

He spoke in his lowest, darkest voice. "I would prefer not to, Majesty."

The room did not actually quiet, Erik noticed. If anything, there was a rush of audible shock, but Erik was focused. He saw the Shah, he was saw his escape route and all of the potential obstacles in his way. He was dimly aware of the Daroga.

" _Erik,_ " the Daroga whispered, "just do it."

" _No._ "

The Shah tilted his head thoughtfully. "I asked you to remove your mask."

"You did. I declined."

"Come now," the Shah's voice pitched higher, "none of this nonsense." He jerked a bejeweled hand in Erik's direction, and one of the guards came forward.

It was simple instinct that prompted Erik's movements, just as a bird might battle sea winds to take up roost, or a dog might bare its teeth in a snarl at an attacker. The guard was disarmed and relegated to the tiled floor without any particular thought on Erik's part, and a second one joined him in swift order.

It was then that Erik saw his future, as clear as any saint or seer. He would run from this, just as he had run from everything else in his life—like a frightened boy or untamed animal. What a foolish waste! Here was opportunity, here was a chance to start building some sort of life, and he would have it end before it began.

He had also left his red coat in his rooms on the other side of the palace, and he would be sorry to lose it.

A surrender went against every bone in his body and every scar on his skin, but Erik could see in the Shah's eyes that it was the only real option he had. He let himself fall to his knees, head bowed and hands spread wide in peace.

Now the room was truly silent, and that grated on Erik. He broke the silence with song—a simple song, something by way of apology. A glance up showed that they were all caught in the spell, even Nadir who had heard him before. The Shah had the audacity to tap his foot.

Erik finished cleanly and then, still in his most angelic voice, offered his apologies. "Do forgive me," he said, willing the words to whisper in every corning of the room. He slipped his mask off and lifted his face to the Shah.

Naser al-Din blanched and sputtered. "It will not happen again." Was that a command to Erik? Or was it a promise on his part? Erik imagined that even the Shah was unsure.

Erik smiled, and refrained from wincing as he heard the distinct sound of retching on the other side of the room. He also managed to stamp out a flame of violence that ignited when someone _laughed._ "It will not," he murmured.

"Cover yourself," the Shah commanded. "And come tomorrow to the fete of my Prime Minister. You will sing."

"I will sing," Erik echoed.

The Shah dismissed him. "Nadir, a word…"

Erik set his mask back on and swept the room with a final look. For an instant, he locked gazes with a pair of smiling eyes that peered between the carvings in the wall that separated the women from the men. He nodded at those eyes, and was followed out by the sound of laughter. It wasn't quite a pleasant sound, but there was quite a bit of mirth in it.

Erik smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naser al-Din Shah was a notorious history and geography junkie. Who knew?


	4. An Opportunity

It was Nadir's professional opinion that Erik was adjusting entirely too well to life in Mazandaran. Oh, there had been that one dreadful moment when Nadir was sure that Erik would end up with his head on the executioner's block and drag Nadir down with him. The moment had passed as inexplicably as it had arrived. The Shah, typically never one to forget a wrong done to him, had simply given Nadir the assignment of watching over Erik and helping him acclimate. There had been a stern warning thrown in and the terrible sound of Nadir's fate being woven inseparably in with Erik's.

The idea had been enough to give Nadir indigestion, and he was quite sure that the reality of it would eventually result in a heart attack.

Erik, of course, had found the entire idea _delightful._ That seemed to be the fiend's favorite word for most everything that Nadir found distasteful— _delightful._

"You don't know what light is, boy," Nadir grumbled in return.

"I don't?" Erik had replied. "I don't."

But for that matter, Nadir had to wonder if he really knew what _darkness_ was either.

At first, Nadir was forced to witness every stunt and performance the young man in the mask pulled, per his position as Erik's Keeper. It had been an uncomfortable role to play, and Nadir could have sworn that his hair had grayed more in the first month of Erik's presence in Mazandaran than it had in the entirety of his life previous. It _could_ have been worse, he supposed. It helped that Erik was genuinely talented. He quickly became a permanent fixture at the Shah's side, entertaining with his voice, his increasingly complicated feats of legerdemain, a gift for mimicry, and that biting wit that toed a very fine line between funny and unsettling. He had the impunity of any court jester of old.

It seemed, for a time, that the transition would prove smooth and that Nadir would one day soon be able to return to his ordinary life. These hopes—seemingly so benign, so _attainable_ —were soon dashed.

Erik had stalked into the main room of Nadir's home and flopped onto a divan, his red Circassian coat spreading out around him like so much blood.

"Why do you live so _far_ from the Palace?" he asked. Nadir took a moment to reflect on just how gifted his charge must be. He had attained a shocking level of proficiency in the Persian language. Now, a scant two months after his arrival in Mazandaran, he was fluent enough to _whine_ in it.

"I have a life outside of the Court." Nadir refrained from pointing out that he _preferred_ to have a life outside of the whims of Naser al-Din's eyes. Erik was still an unknown quantity in his mind, but there was something about him, some glint in those uncanny gold eyes, that suggested that he might like to indulge in mischief for mischief's sake. He had seen hints of it at the Shah's dinner table more than once. Nadir was not so arrogant as to assume that he would escape it fully from Erik's whims. There was no reason to give him unneeded information.

"What is it that you even _do?_ " Erik pressed.

"Well, what do the policemen in France do?"

"How should I know?" Erik shrugged.

Nadir snorted and was about to give a brief outline of his duties as the Chief of Police in Mazandaran— a position that consisted mainly of enforcing land boundaries and locking up the occasional Bábi, or sporadically overseeing the investigation of some crime that was particularly baffling or whose principals were especially exalted— when an unearthly voice arose from the tea set that graced the low table before him.

_How terribly rude of you, Nadir Khan, not to offer poor Erik a glass of tea!_

The voice chilled Nadir to his very bones. It took him a moment to recover, cursing himself for how ridiculous he must have looked staring slack-jawed at a teacup. The embarrassment served to infuriate him.

"What in the seven hells do you think you are doing?" he demanded. It was his best voice of command, a tone that had made innumerable miscreants and princelings cower.

Erik laughed. "Well, my dear Daroga, it is quite simple," he pivoted in the divan to sit cross-legged, "one of the Shah's guards started spreading the most absurd rumors about me. Started calling me a _magician_ and a _sorcerer_ —this is after that little trick I did with the mirrors last week— and I thought to myself, _well, why not?_ So I took up the dark arts—called up a devil and traded a song for, oh, unlimited power."

"This is not a matter to joke about, Erik," Nadir said. "Be serious."

"Oh, all right. It was two songs, and my powers are confined to the earthly realms."

"Stop." Nadir resisted the temptation to spring to his feet and pace. No, it would not do for Erik to see him so rattled. Calm. _Calm_. "I do not know how such a claim would be met where you come from, but here? There will be those who believe you, and will not take to the idea kindly. It is not merely the humble man who will reject you out of superstitious fear. At the very least, you will make an enemy of the clergy—and they are not be trifled with. You are setting yourself up for disaster—and me along with you."

Nadir could only watch as Erik laughed again. He chuckled until he stumbled into a mad cackle that lasted entirely too long. He eventually quieted and returned to lying on the divan. He brooded and sulked for a minute before declaring, "I'm bored."

* * *

Relief came to Nadir unexpectedly, and in the form of a sketchbook.

He had sought out Erik, hoping to talk sense into the man before a particularly solemn Court event. He disliked going into the rooms Erik had claimed in one of the outer buildings of the palace. In short order, they had been transformed from comfortable guest quarters into a veritable shop of curiosities, its special stock being the macabre. The air was thick with conflicting scents: incense and spices, acidic chemicals and what he could have sworn was gunpowder.

Nadir could swear that Erik could sense his discomfort and, very likely, took delight in it. Well, being in the Shah's service was far from a guarantee of comfort in life.

"…Do not press Kabiri," Nadir said, on his second glass of tea, "he is Mahdeh Olia's man, and lacks humor."

"Ah, do I finally get to meet the infamous Queen Mother?" It was one of the first times Erik had interjected, though he did not bother looking up. His attention was locked on a leather bound book. He had drawn on page after page of it since Nadir had arrived, keeping it carefully angled away from his guest's eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous. She'll be with her women," Nadir said, "and even if you did, she wouldn't like you. Malek Jahan Khanum is a consummate politician—and you are nothing to her agenda."

"What is her agenda?"

Nadir weighed his options. Information always seemed like a very dangerous thing to put in Erik's hand—but how much worse might it be for him to stumble about blindly? "To keep as much power within the Qajar aristocracy as possible."

"Is that not also the Shah's… agenda?" The scrapes of Erik's pen were loud and grating.

"Not to the same degree. The Shah likes whom he likes. He bestows favors and positions on those he likes, with their bloodlines being a secondary concern. Madeh Olia plays favorites as well, of course, but it is almost guaranteed that her favorites will come from the right families in the right tribes."

Erik did not deem the rest of the conversation worthy of his participation, and Nadir grew weary of monologue.

"What are you even doing?" he demanded. He arose sharply and pulled the book from Erik's hands. It was a feat he would have been unlikely to succeed in, had he not caught Erik by surprise.

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" Erik huffed.

Nadir thumbed through the book. The pages contained meticulous architectural drawings—arches, walls, masonry patterns, courtyards… They were surrounded by sloppily penned numbers and words that were, probably, French.

Nadir settled on one page, a concept for a full building. "This is the palace."

"No," Erik snatched the book back. "That is what the palace _ought_ to be."

"Where did you learn to do this?" Nadir asked. He could not claim any great familiarity with the art and science of architecture, but there was something about Erik's drawings… they struck him as both beautiful and _feasible._

Erik grumbled. "Here and there."

"Here and there?"

Erik sulked again and mumbled something that might have been _I grew up around a mason._ His eyes, surrounded by his black mask, were murderous. Nadir dropped the subject and they spent a moment in silence.

"The Shah…" Nadir struggled for the right words, or at least for a sign from heaven to stop him from speaking, "the Shah is ink drawing enthusiast."

"I know," Erik said. "His are awful. If funny, for all the awfulness."

Nadir glowered at the young man before him—the young man who had so many talents just waiting to be uncovered, with an intelligence that frightened Nadir, and an apparent desire for a very short life. Nadir marveled at him for a moment, and then remembered his face, and pitied him. "There is talk of rebuilding the palace."

"There should be. It's falling apart."

"There might be an opportunity for… some of your designs to be brought to life."

Erik froze and his eyes narrowed. "These are not _designs,_ Daroga. It is _a design._ One cannot pick and choose from it."

Nadir held up his hands. "I merely said: _an opportunity._ "

"An opportunity," Erik repeated.

"An opportunity."

* * *

Nadir was relieved when Erik at last seemed to find his place in the Court. It was not, as Nadir might have expected in the early days, with the musicians or the menagerie of oddities the Court collected as amusements. It was a surprisingly useful office he now occupied, even if the power it lent him gave Nadir pause.

As the direct result of those black ink visions of a palace fit for the heir of Cyrus, Erik had been placed over the repairs of Mazandaran.

He had talent for the work, Nadir thought, though he wore the mantle of authority like it was an ill-fit.

"I need money," he complained when Nadir came to check on his progress one day. "The Shah tells me to use whatever funds _I deem necessary,_ but the treasury does not release them to me!"

"Funds for the palace remodel are handled by Feridoon Kamran Ali Jah," Nadir said.

"I know! I know! But where is the man? Never once have I seen him in Mazandaran, and letters to his house in Tehran go unanswered! He is nowhere to be found, and I need the money _now._ " Nadir was surprised that Erik had not stamped his foot for good measure.

"I believe he has gone to visit family, to procure a wife for himself." Nadir said. "He shall not return to Mazandaran for a few months, at least."

"That won't do," Erik growled, "I'll just have to find something else to do until he comes."

At the time, Nadir had merely smirked at the sulky childishness he had come to expect from Erik, rather like a too-indulgent uncle might. In later years, he would look back on Erik's words as a terrible omen he had been too blind to notice. But how was he to know that in Erik's search for something to amuse himself with for a few weeks he would find the little sultana?


	5. A Recollection

My Dear Shadi,

My life has allowed me to see some small part of the world. I have been to a number of the great capitals, both Eastern and Western. I have sailed over blue seas and strolled through green country-sides, stood in awe of the mountains wrought by both man and Earth. Yet none of none of the places I have been can compare to Mazandaran.

Trust me when I tell you that my words are not the simple product of nostalgia, of longing for the past. Mazandaran is the most beautiful place on Earth—yet, are we not told that Satan was the most beautiful of God's angels? But I am getting ahead of myself again. I could not foresee the future then anymore then than I could do so now. In that summer of 1860, I simply saw paradise on Earth.

We arrived in Nowshahr, where Naser al-Din made his summer home, in an evening the likes of which only happen _there._

If I told you how many minutes have passed between the time I penned the above words and these, you would scoff at me. In truth, I hesitate to put down my recollections of Mazandaran, for fear you may think me a foolish old woman full of fancies, and in coming to that conclusion, discount the worth of _all_ my words. I _suppose_ there could be some glamour thrown over my memories of the place. It was my gateway into the greater world, even if the world was a long time coming. And I _was_ happy there, if only for a time. But _such_ happiness it was. Yes, my memories of Mazandaran may well be biased. But all autobiography is biased. Remember that it was _my_ story you asked for, and my story has Mazandaran cast as a place utterly set apart from the common world. I hope that in conceding this point, you will take the rest of my tale seriously.

We arrived in the early evening, the sky painted that pale amethyst hue that I have never seen anywhere save in a Mazandarani twilight. It was usually humid there, which resulted in perennial greenery and caught deep fogs and mists between the sea and mountains.

I must have looked every inch the gawking country girl I was, for Feridoon laughed at me—and Feridoon so seldom laughed. I was not upset at his mirth, even though it was at my expense. I had made something to that very effect my mission in life. After all, I had come from a provincial life that, while very comfortable, had involved quite a bit of daily work. Now I was the only wife of a city gentleman, and being as useful as I could be occupied precious little of my day. Idleness did not suit, and it came naturally to me to seek out a project. And what better project than my own husband? I wanted to make him smile; I wanted to make him laugh. Feridoon was good to me, and _kind_ in an age when men did not need to be so. But there was always a pall of sorts over him, a weight that followed him like a vengeful ghost, dampening whatever joy his melancholy nature might have otherwise allowed him.

I did not yet understand what it meant to be in the service of the Shah. I did not realize how it stripped men of their security, and sometimes even of their dignity. One hears of royal service and thinks of the honor of it, and little more. There was an honor to it, I suppose, and the potential for great gain. But in the wake of every triumph came the distinct possibility of a reversal; every reward could be snatched back. Every honor came with a price, and one never knew when that price might be collected.

Feridoon knew all of this, of course. Looking back, I can even see how he tried to prepare me. His warnings were numerous and constant. Though I tried to take him seriously, his cautions sometimes seemed like a hypochondriac's cough. Perhaps if he had taken a firmer hand… but Feridoon was always delicate with me, even once he learned that he did not need to be, and at that age I had not quite mastered the interpretation of nuances. I also believe—hindsight being such a painfully marvelous thing—that Feridoon fell into the trap of ever so many good men. He thought that he alone could protect me.

My poor, dear Feridoon. I miss him, from time to time, even after all these years. It is a selfish longing, I admit. I do not think anyone has ever quite loved me like Feridoon did, and it is so pleasant to be loved.

…But perhaps this really is just the long years tinting my memories in jewel tones. I cannot be sure. I think not, but as I keep on writing for you, I keep on questioning myself. I must wonder. These events are nearly fifty years done—how dare I presume that I am immune to the dulling of time?...

Again with my meanderings! I keep on trying to find the correct balance of giving you a complete picture of the events and times I experienced, while not boring you with the meaningless details. It is not coming easily, my dear! I laugh to think that I warned you in my first letter that I would not stay my pen. I had meant to convey that I might shock you with unpleasant or uncouth things—not that I would digress time and again into pointless reminisces that you cannot really be interested in. I forget, sometimes, that I am out of fashion.

I shall endeavor to rectify the matter.

We arrived in Mazandaran surrounded by those fantasy colors and the sea salt hanging heavily in the air. Feridoon kept a house near the palace grounds, though as far on the outskirts of Court as could be managed without ending up amongst servants and slaves. I have fond memories of that place, the first house I was true mistress over. I loved its blue tiled courtyard and chipped fountain, the walled roof garden and the gold silk window hangings in my bedroom. It may have suffered some in those early days from Feridoon's bachelorhood and inclination towards austerity, but I thought it a fine house then, and I think it a fine house now.

Feridoon had scarcely finished showing me the house when our—rather, his—first visitor arrived. I was still properly veiled from the journey, and when Feridoon heard the name of our guest, he bid me stay.

You may recall Nadir from your early youth. He was always called _my_ cousin in those later days, though he was in fact Feridoon's second cousin on his mother's side. He was always a curious man, Cousin Nadir. He was titled _Khan_ —which placed him only below the Navab, the Princes of the Blood, and the Janab, the highest ministers of state and grand governors. He was even related to Naser al-Din, though I could never quite figure out how. For all that, he never allowed himself airs. I say _allowed_ , because he warranted them but did not have them. He worked hard at assignments others would have dallied over and ignored. A sober man, who always listened, though the fashion was to talk. That last trait was one he shared with my husband, and I came to respect him for it.

Of course, I did not know that then (how very little I knew then!) All I saw was a man as dark as a Moor, who stood a hand or two above most others, and had green eyes that never veered to either blue or hazel.

He made the appropriate remarks and then, with an abruptness that you must understand was extremely out of step with our culture, turned to my husband. "We must speak."

Feridoon turned grim. Grimness was always an ill look on him. With his scars, he tended to look merely… battle-weary. "As you will. Mojgan—send for tea."

'Send for tea' was a command I had frequently obeyed from my father. He would have me set down a tea tray and then conceal myself during his business meetings—out of sight, but not earshot. It was force of habit that led me to do the same that first evening with Feridoon and Nadir. Well, and curiosity. (There is no one left to chastise me for giving in to my curiosity.)

It did not take long to prepare the tea, but when I brought out the tray, Feridoon and Nadir were already deep in discussion. They did not stop as I poured out their cups. I remember the entire affair so clearly: the gold rims of the tea glasses glinting by the oil lamp's flame, the spike of cardamom from the tea, quickly rearranging the pistachio cookies to hide a chip on the plate. And I remember the feeling that overwhelmed in that moment: _surprise_. No one— _no one_ —would start in on business before tea was served and trivialities exhausted. But there they were, not a half hour from the time Nadir had stepped into our home, most definitely in serious discussion. I slipped away and sat behind the half-wall and curtains where one might very easily expect to find a wife awaiting her husband's command.

It was difficult to pick up the thread of conversation. They spoke of people I did not know, places I had never heard of, sums of money I had never imagined.

It was only when the conversation shifted to Erik that I realized they _had_ been indulging in idle chitchat. All important things, but not the meat of the matter.

"I remember when you were sent to fetch the man," Feridoon said of Erik. "Was he not a singer? How did he come to preside over the palace repairs?"

"He wanted to," Nadir said.

"Who has ever gotten what they wanted _here?_ " Feridoon countered, "What are you not telling me?"

"He is capable," Nadir said. He sounded ever-so-slightly offended. His relationship with Erik was always a complex—like a father to a son, like a hanging judge to a murderer.

"And who is ever given a job they are capable of?"

There was a long pause. "He has the fear of many," Nadir said. "He has powers."

"Powers," Feridoon repeated. "He has powers. Like what? He is wealthy? High born?"

There was an even longer pause this time. "He has set himself up as a sort of sorcerer."

It was Feridoon's turn to pause. "A sorcerer."

"He is an illusionist," Nadir said firmly.

"This is absurd," Feridoon said.

"I… would agree, if I did not know the man. When he finds out that you have returned, he will be hunting for you. The Shah has given him access to funds for the repairs, but—"

Feridoon groaned. "I see my sums being dashed to the ground."

"Oh, yes."

They continued for another hour at least, and I learned more about the unsavory side of the Court than I would have thought possible. Nadir took his leave, and after some time Feridoon came and found me.

He did not smile. "They shouldn't have called you _Mojgan,_ " he said, running a finger lightly over my eyelids, though such little touches were not part of his nature. "They should have called you _Goosh._ " He tapped my ear. "Did you learn anything?"

"Precious little," I confessed.

"Good," he said, and walked away.

The night was sweltering, and Feridoon had his servants drag mattresses out onto the roof garden. Despite the heat, he held me close and whispered to me.

"I think you have a good deal of wisdom, Mojgan," he said. "I think you are discreet. I married you for your discretion. Please—please use your discretion."

I did not know quite how to reply, but I nodded.

"You will hear things," he continued, with uncharacteristic urgency in his voice, "in my house, you will hear much. Eventually, you will go to Court. You will meet the other women. You will hear much. Do not let them know how much you hear. Do not speak. Please, Mojgan, do not speak."

I nodded again, and he seemed to take comfort in my silent acquiescence. He fell asleep in short order, but I stayed awake for many hours afterwards.

When sleep finally claimed me, my mind was clouded with castles drifting through purple skies, and my poor Feridoon waging battle with a great magician.

I thank God in heaven I haven't the gift of prophecy. Not that the true future was much better than my imaginings.

I hope this letter finds you well, dear. You will tell me if you want me to cease my ramblings, yes?

_Mojgan Banu Khanum_


	6. An Introduction

"No! No! Careful with the carvings! Protect them, you beasts! _Kharha!_ Do I have to do it all myself? Like women, all of you! Worthless!"

It was early morning in Mazandaran, but the east wing of the palace was already abuzz with activity. Scores of men were demolishing the outer wall, resulting in delicious chaos. Erik had considered a controlled fire for this work, but was now glad he had decided against it. The real beauties of the Shah's palace—like the beauties of the Shah's Court—were hidden and neglected. A prime example was the length of stunning engraved siding he had found concealed under overgrown morning glory. A half-dozen workers were agonizing over the preservation of the stones.

Erik snuck to the side of his favorite foreman. Babak was wonderfully harsh with his men, and wonderfully superstitious. He jumped when he finally noticed Erik, and did not even bother hiding the gesture he made to ward off the evil eye. Oh, yes. Power and prestige did not buy _respect._

"Problems, Babak?"

The man kept his eyes focused on the toiling men. "Nothing, besides my workers having eggplant stew for brains. You'd get more use eating them than letting them work."

The rumor that Erik gained his uncanny powers from cannibalism was a recent development. It smacked of _her_ humor—slightly amusing, rather grotesque, almost beyond belief, and impossible to disprove. Insidious, too, as demonstrated by Babak's offhanded address of the jibe. "Perhaps. I dislike eggplant, myself."

A long pause. "Well. We're not behind schedule."

"Not yet." Erik let his voice dance over the words, coaxing an implicit threat from the innocent syllables.

Babak grunted. "If we did not need to save the engraved facing— or those cursed mosaics—or—"

"But we do," Erik said. "And I factored it into my schedule." He took a moment to approach some of the nearby laborers and evaluate their efforts, effectively bringing work to standstill. He returned to Babak. "I do hate for my schedules to be ignored."

He was gratified to see Babak flinch at last. "Then we will stick to them, _agha._ "

"Yes, that's probably best," Erik chirped. He spent another moment in silence, tallying his current resources and the immediate needs of the project. It was a tedious business for the moment, but once work started in _earnest_ … "I want to start work on the free-standing tile work immediately."

Babak's fingers twitched into a hex sign again. "Laborers are one thing, _agha._ Like rats—one leaves, another replaces him. Artisans are harder to come by, and they like to be paid."

"I know," Erik glanced at the sun, still trying to shrug off the morning gloom, "Engage them."

* * *

It seemed as if every day in Persia brought Erik a new joy, ready to replace the previous favored amusement. Blue tile mosaics and Arabic calligraphy. Shady courtyards and elegant archways. Embroidered slippers and impossibly soft cashmere wool. Wonderfully versatile _setars_ and fussy _neys_ and bombastic _tonpaks_ to be played. Opium had been good for two or three doses, at which point Erik found it made his voice as fuzzy as his thoughts. _Sholeh zard_ had introduced him to the rather foreign concept of a _favorite food._

The Sultana's infectious laugh.

And his favorite among favorites—at least for the day— _spies._

Oh, Erik still liked to slip through the palace like a phantom, a task made easier than ever by the commotion of construction. He liked to see and hear things for himself—but how delightful to have someone inform him of what he did not have the time or inclination to attend to personally.

After all, he couldn't _really_ be everywhere at once.

This little spy, who plied his trade in return for the tenuous promise of future favors, had reported that Erik's long-awaited banker had finally arrived.

 _Finally._ The Shah could magnanimously acquiesce to _this_ aspect of the remodel or _that_ bit of demolition, but it did little good without the backing funds.

What sort of man did Naser al-Din appoint over his purse? Erik pictured any number of the government ministers, with their abundance of arrogance and equally astonishing dearth of intelligence. Given that he had also ferreted out a confession of blood-relation between the man in question and Nadir Khan, Erik supposed that _sanctimonious nuisance_ was a safe description to assume.

Erik had fairly itched to fly over to Feridoon Ali Jah's residence at the first light of dawn, but restrained himself admirably. The Persians were not, as a group, fond of the early morning. Erik certainly would not have minded rousing the glorified accountant from his bed, but there was a distinct possibility that his servants would simply deny him entrance.

…Of course, there were ways around _that_. But how much did the Shah like this man who wielded considerable if quiet power? And how much might the Pivot of the Universe dislike him being meddled with?

_Who meddles now, Daroga?_

So Erik had forced himself to go to his work site, to observe and terrorize by turns, until the hour turned slightly more favorable for… social calls.

His destination was an almost laughably modest little house, with little touches that bordered precariously between _homey_ and _homely._ It was still and quiet, but there were the tell-tale curls of smoke coming from the back of the house, the smell of fresh bread and spiced tea. And from over the high walls that enclosed a garden, a woman's laugh.

It was a curious sound to Erik's ear. He had heard much laughter in his life—nearly equal to the screams and shouts and sobs—and something about this one did not seem quite right. He tested the sound for genuineness and found it rang true. But where was the bitterness? The brittleness? Barring those qualities, the _madness?_ This was a simple laugh: happy, subdued, but inherently truthful. No one laughed like that. At least, no one laughed like that around _him._

The thought infuriated him, and he pounded on the door.

The guards that greeted Erik belied the simple life Feridoon's house advertised. They were severe men, obviously palace-trained, but Erik glowered at them. He tilted his head and allowed the light to catch his eyes. They were a loathsome color, one of Erik's innumerable _unfortunate_ features, but very effective in supporting his role of _sorcerer._ He had watched many a proud Persian official cower under the force of his eyes. He wondered what warning they saw in them, as Erik seldom had a _particular_ malice in mind. _Perhaps it is the threat of your company, Erik Agha. A terrifying fate, indeed._

Feridoon's guards did not appear to be impressed, though Erik saw the slight tightness around the eyes and lips that betrayed their discomfort.

"I would speak to your master," Erik said. He tried for politeness in his tone, though it struck him as out of tune.

"The hour is early," the senior of the two men said, "and he is not prepared for… visitors."

Under the safety of his mask, Erik flinched. Who was this man, who thought he could turn Erik away with little more than a glare and a wave? Hadn't people learned yet that they could not _ignore_ Erik? That they could not _reject_ Erik?

"I have business with him," Erik said. " _And I will not be turned away._ "

There was a reason why Erik loved sound—music, singing, speech. There was a power in it, as potent as any mythical spell. What one saw could be dismissed. What one felt could be ignored. What one heard… what one heard invaded the mind and the spirit. Man could be enticed by the eyes, Erik imagined, but he was captured by his ears.

If any man was a master hunter with the weapon of sound, it was Erik. He watched as his words washed over the men, as his voice wormed its way into their hearts and ate at them. But not the words, not really the words, which were simple and akin to meaningless. It was the _sound_ of Erik's voice, the music he could will into the world with mere thought and muscle. He added a touch of pyrotechnics to the performance, for dramatics' own sake. In a minute, they might think to question him, but in a minute Erik would already be at his destination.

He pushed past the guards in the instant when they were inclined to _listen_ to him. He strode through the public rooms of the house and to the walled garden at the back.

The guards had caught up to him by then, but Erik batted them away. They were stuttering apologies and protestations of innocence, but their master ignored them in favor of looking at Erik.

Erik returned the open observation. Feridoon Kamran Ali Jah sat on a low couch next to an unveiled woman, with a tea glass in his hand, seemingly unconcerned at the intrusion. Half of his face was a mess of scars that pulled at his eyelid and turned his lips into a grimace. For a beat, Erik felt something like pity, something like _camaraderie_ , but it faded. Besides the scars, he was a perfectly decent looking man, with a mild expression and bright eyes. And, apparently, the ability to make his dark-eyed houri laugh like an innocent child. _Did you really think he was like you, you fool? Did you think he would understand and commiserate with you over a pot of tea and plate of pastry?_

"Feridoon _agha_ ," Erik greeted, omitting all of the customary good-wishes and blessings of peace.

"Erik _agha_ ," the man replied, his voice as mild as his expression. His woman made a move as if to excuse herself, but Feridoon stayed her with a touch of his finger. "Welcome to my home."

In Russia, Erik had seen many plays performed by the traveling theater troupes. Once, he had even snuck into the Marinsky Theater to see an opera. The quality of the performances, and performers, had varied greatly, but had impressed upon Erik one great truth: everyone had a role to play. The wise old man—the dissolute aristocrat—the strong-willed matriarch—the damsel in distress. All one had to do in any given situation was step back into the role supplied by both nature and artifice. Apparently, Feridoon found that _congenial host_ suited him.

Erik personally preferred _trickster_.

"I have come on business," Erik announced and sat down without an invitation.

"So I imagined. Mojgan, get the gentleman some tea."

His wife moved to comply, but Erik cut in. "No, thank you, _Mojgan dear._ "

 _That_ pushed Feridoon out of his chosen role for a moment, though the flame of indignation in his eyes died as quickly as it had been lit. "I would ask you, sir, not to address my wife."

Erik put his hand over his heart and bowed his head. "I meant no offense, _agha_." He looked up in time to see the woman's painted brow quirk and the barest hint of a smile. He grinned at her under his mask, and she looked back down, as if she knew. A pretty enough girl, though Erik knew his tastes ran askew from the Persian standards. Her features were too sharp to fit in with the highest standard of native beauty, but she had the darker complexion that was favored. Her downcast eyelashes cut startling, oblique lines over her cheekbones. "We Frenchmen do not care for our women to be invisible and mute." Erik did not know if that was entirely true. He was a long time away from France, and his memories of its people centered around a wan woman whispering over a rosary.

"It is simply not our custom," Feridoon said.

Erik stared at Mojgan for a moment longer than necessary, very aware of Feridoon's growing discomfort. Good. He snapped his attention back to his target. "I have brought you a list of my needs. You will see to them."

Feridoon opened a hand in gesture of helplessness. Erik did not believe it for a moment. "Surely you realize that a building project of this magnitude requires tremendous forethought—"

" _I_ gave it tremendous forethought."

"I did not intend to imply otherwise," Feridoon replied, "but how could you be expected to be familiar with the nuances of the state purse?"

"The Shah gave me carte blanche over the budget," Erik growled.

For a moment, Erik thought that Feridoon might make a disparaging comment on that point, but he did not. "I will look over your sums. Please, come to the treasury this afternoon—midday—and we will discuss this further."

"I cannot," Erik shot back. _And why not? Because of your crowded social schedule? Or because you refuse to be dismissed?_ "I am otherwise engaged. I will return tomorrow morning."

"You are welcome to," Feridoon replied. He was fatigued, Erik thought, with his every word betraying how tired he was. It did not strike Erik as the rosy fatigue of a newlywed—though, how could he know for sure? Bone-tiredness. World-weariness. That little stab of camaraderie hit Erik again, but he dismissed it with growing viciousness.

"At the same time as today," Erik added and arose before the man could object. "Goodbye, Feridoon _agha_. _Mojgan banu._ "

He left their ugly little house and grating domesticity in the same way he entered it: quickly and presumptuously. He reached the courtyard, and from over the high walls of the garden, he heard a woman—Mojgan, most assuredly.

"Well, he can't be _all_ bad."

He laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sholeh zard is a type of rice pudding made with saffron, almonds, and rose water. It is bright yellow and almost agonizingly sweet. Also, highly addictive. It seems like something my rather childish Erik would get sick off of.


	7. An Assignment

Erik had heard that Naser al-Din had just recently begun to 'come into his own,' as the expression went. He had sat on the Peacock Throne for a decade at least, and was finally starting to play the part of a serious—rather than merely _earnest_ —monarch.

If _this_ was the Shah at his most dedicated and serious, Erik was amazed that the Qajar reign had survived so long.

The Daroga's voice drifted through Erik's mind unbidden. _You think it wise to insult the hand that guides your fate?_

Well, if Naser al-Din controlled Erik's fate, then Erik was a trained monkey. Then again, if there was such a thing as fate, Erik might as well be a ghost. Why bother living a life that was not your own?

For all that, Erik came to the Shah's audience chamber when he was summoned.

The usual brigade of secretaries and musicians swarmed around the imperial personage, like so many flies around a… well, Nadir had been chastising Erik to be more polite. The Shah did not pay them any heed. He was dressed in an unquestionably traditional style that day: a long paisley coat worn over loose trousers and a belted tunic. He grimaced a smile at Erik, prompted him through every conceivable formality, and finally settled in for the discussion of 'important matters'.

Important, indeed.

"The mosaic designs are—" the Shah switched from his clumsy French to Persian—"absolutely exquisite. Perfect harmony of form and function. I could not have done better myself."

In theory, Erik probably should have argued that last point, insisting that the royal imagination would have undoubtedly topped whatever feeble caprices Erik had managed to conjure. He could not quite come up the words for that, and settled for _not_ voicing his wholehearted agreement that, yes, his own design was certainly superior. "Thank you, my Lord."

If the Shah had sensed Erik's insult of omission, he deigned to ignore it. "Unfortunately, I simply cannot allow the Court to be so disrupted," he sighed. "Complaints about the noise, complaints about the dust. And would we have done, when construction moved on to the harem? No, no, no. I am glad of the repair work done here, but the renovations are unnecessary and entirely too disruptive."

It was one of those horrible moments where time slowed for Erik. He had a score of such memories, of the moments when his world collapsed around him. Blood rushed to his face and fingertips. "You did not care for Erik's designs? Or perhaps you think there had been a mismanagement of time? Of resources?"

"Calm your heart, Erik," the Shah said. He seemed amused by Erik's rage, clearly unaware of how deep it ran.

"How can I be calm? How can you expect Erik to be—"

"The project changes, but remains. I want a retreat from my retreat—you will take your designs and apply them to that."

Erik turned the idea over and over. "I see."

"There is a spot I am fond of, not ten miles away."

A promising thought, if it was reliable... "There is no existing structure?"

"The land was cleared for development some years ago. Nothing came of it. There might be the beginnings of a foundation… I really can't recall."

"I thought you were _fond_ of the place."

"I am! That is why you will build be a home there." The Shah snorted, "You are as skittish as a new slave girl."

Erik pulled out of his slouch. "When can see the new site?"

"Next week, perhaps?" The Shah shrugged. "I have need of you until then."

"Performing, no doubt."

"That is why I ordered you brought to my court. All else is extra." Erik expected to be dismissed, but the Shah apparently had other matters in mind. A curious change overtook him: his face drew in, his eyes widened, his mustachios drooped. He dismissed his secretaries with a tense jerk of his hand, and waited for them to leave before speaking again. He had Erik's full attention, and fidgeted under it. "Speaking of performances—the _khattack_ dance you did?..."

"What of it?"

"I would have not thought you were familiar with it."

"I watched the Pashtuns perform it last month."

"You… watched it?"

"Yes." Erik had also practiced it tirelessly, acquiring an interesting array of bruises and gashes from the swords along the way. But there was no need to point such a thing out. A playact ought to appear effortless. All the Shah needed to know was that Erik could make swords dance like sprites and lightening.

"It was astounding. The music—the song—the blades. Reminds a man that his place is on the battlefield, that enemies ought not be allowed their peace."

Erik murmured something noncommittal.

The Shah was paler than ever. "Then you are comfortable with swords?"

"More or less." It was a trap, Erik knew. He had walked into enough of them in his short life to recognize one by the tune of the air and the hum of the trappers.

The Shah was an absolute cacophony. "Knives, then?"

"I find that I have little need for them, outside of art, under Your Majesty's auspices." It was as close to flattery as Erik could manage and the Shah's eyes crinkled, amused at the attempt.

"But you can use them, yes?"

"I could arrange an interesting display, for the next banquet, I am sure."

"No, no! That is not what—" Naser al-Din cut himself off with a sharp gesture. He switched topics abruptly. "Are you familiar with Nasrullah Nuri?"

"Your former Premier?"

"The same. He has been out of power for as long as he was in power—and yet!" The Shah fidgeted more, and scowled. "I have nothing but fondness for the man, personally. But can a monarch rule on his personal feelings alone? Would your own Napoleon the Third be swayed by his affection for a man?"

"I can hardly comment."

"And I hardly think so! Surely the proud blood of his forefathers would prompt him to favor… action over individual. As for me… ah, Nuri left us in a woeful state of disorder. He wished to return to old ways—what is that phrase the Christians have? _As a dog to vomit?_ In that way, Nuri would have left off the good of the new and returned to the foul old. So while I still love the man, and have bestowed the utmost benevolence upon him, he cannot remain in my court."

Erik was quiet in the face of the Shah's outburst. "I see."

"Do you?" the Shah asked. He did not await further reply. "He has a cousin here, who works tirelessly in the advocacy of his kinsman. Perhaps you are familiar with him?..."

"Sayid al-Davood?"

The Shah laughed sharply. "I knew you paid more attention that you claim to. An eloquent youth, Sayid. A persuasive man. A rising star." The Shah's tone grew darker with each word. "A traitor in all _but_ deed."

There was a long silence in the Shah's office, and Erik drummed a tattoo on the arm of his chair to break it. It ended up sounding like a requiem march. "Why tell me?"

Naser al-Din mumbled vaguely. "You are so discreet. You travel the palace without displacing a shadow. And your skill with a blade… surely these are talents you must long to exercise."

"Exercise… how?"

More vacillating vagaries.

"Yes, but what do you mean for _me_ to _do_?"

More excuses. More innuendo. It nearly drove Erik mad. He bit his tongue briefly, to remind himself that he was not trapped in a nightmare. "What," he spoke clearly, distinctly, "is it that Your Imperial Majesty wishes of me?"

At last, the Shah met Erik's eyes, and in an extraordinarily businesslike tone of voice said, "you will kill Sayid al-Davood. You will do so discreetly, and before week's end."

"Will I, indeed?" Erik asked mildly.

"Well?"

The question hung heavily in the air. There was only one answer for it, wasn't there?

"Yes. Yes, I suppose I will."

* * *

Nadir had made one of his requisite appearances at the Shah's table. He had sat with Feridoon, who said precious little, as was his wont in company. He was too cautious a man to make a decent dining companion, but Nadir could hardly blame him.

Erik had been there as well, of course, flittering around the edges of the gathering. He sang twice and conjured a flock of doves to delight the guests and irritate the dancers. Nadir had caught his eye, but had not been able to speak with him.

He should be glad that he had managed to practically wash his hands of the madman, but found that he was merely concerned. Heaven knew what sort of trouble the boy was finding. Or rather, what trouble was finding the boy.

The party had broken up in the early morning hours, as usual, and Nadir had returned home pleasantly fuzzy and quite unconcerned. Perhaps a late start to his work would be in order. Perhaps even a day off…

Such wonderful dreams were broken when Darius stumbled in to wake him before dawn.

"The sorcerer's here," the boy mumbled, sleep-addled.

"The sorcerer?..."

"Erik _agha_ ," Darius clarified. "He will not leave."

Nadir valiantly hung on to the last remnants of peace. He gave up in short order and stumbled out of bed, swathed in a blanket.

"What have you done _now?_ " he growled as he entered his sitting room. He could just make out Erik's shadow in the half light. Nadir paused, silent, and looked at him. Erik was bent over, his long arms cradling his head. "Erik?"

The sound Nadir heard might have been sniffling. He hoped to God it was not. There was a reason he had never pursued the idea of fathering children. Several, in fact, but the idea of being responsible for crying youths in need of guidance had been a strong one.

Fate was a funny thing.

He steeled himself. "Erik?"

Erik quieted and turned his head towards Nadir slightly. His weird gold eyes caught a scrap of candlelight and reflected it a hundred times over. "Daroga. I think… I think that Erik has made a terrible mistake."


	8. An Alteration

There was power in blood.

Nadir knew that for an unquestionable, utterly unalienable fact. It was a conviction free of superstition, born out of what Nadir had witnessed with his own eyes.

A man who had spilt blood was fundamentally different from one who had not. It was as simple as that. It did not matter if it had happened in self-defense, or line of duty, or even if it was murder.

Blood had power, and Nadir pitied the man who unleashed it upon himself.

Nadir had killed, of course, in the pursuit of justice. Any number of crimes might warrant a death sentence, and he had indirectly sent many to that fate. Other occasions had called for a more personal level of involvement. Either way, he had killed, and been altered for it, and had seen the alteration in innumerable others.

He had seen it in Erik, back at that Russian fairground. He had known then that Erik had played with blood, and could only hope that he would desist in the future. A foolish hope, as part of the way a man was changed was a tendency to see life as a little less than sacred.

He had expected that Erik would one day act rashly, that he would make a mistake in the heat of a moment. Perhaps Nadir would have felt a little sad, if that had happened, for he was not _un_ fond of the boy. Perhaps even a little concerned, considering how Naser al-Din had twined them together. But ultimately, Nadir would have felt quite vindicated. Things would have happened exactly he had supposed they would, and no one could say that he had not tried to sound a warning.

How was it, then, that Nadir had not foreseen _this_ outcome? It was obvious, painfully so, after the fact.

It had been difficult to extract the story for Erik, but Nadir was left with a clear enough idea of what had happened.

The Shah had seen something that could be of use to him, and had so used it. _It_ , in this case, was _Erik._ How had Nadir _not_ foreseen this? Not only was the situation far from unusual, it was positively inevitable.

Was Nadir imagining the accusation in Erik's eyes, that glint that blamed the Daroga for failing to warn him of this very predictable trial?

He must have imagined it, considering that Erik had refused to look at Nadir since he had started his confession.

He had been quiet for some time now, leaning back on the divan, arms crossed, chin resting on his chest. His black mask was a void.

"Do you think I'll be arrested?" Erik asked. His voice no longer jerked with tension. He had not referred to himself in the third person, and he had taken on an oddly detached, analytical tone. Was that better that his earlier uncomfortable weepiness? Nadir could not be sure. He imagined that it was, in fact, a sign for the worse.

"It is possible," Nadir returned dispassion for dispassion. "It depends on how badly the Shah requires a scapegoat."

"Even though I did the Shah's… bidding?" He spat out the word like poison.

"As you say—who witnessed the command? The Shah's own servants? What will they say in _your_ defense?"

Erik laughed darkly and rubbed his neck. How old was he? Nadir wondered. He seemed a child so much of the time—but there were moments where Nadir could believe that he was the oldest man on Earth.

"If it comes to that," Erik said, "will you arrest me?"

"Likely." Very likely. Not only would such an arrest fall under Nadir's jurisdiction, but it would be seen a fit demonstration of his loyalty to the Shah and his government. Nadir was slowly growing numb as daylight crept into his home. Erik sat, immobile.

"You will not let me escape," Erik added. It was not a question, or even an accusation. A simple fact, treated matter-of-factly.

"No," Nadir conceded. "I will not."

Erik nodded. "I wouldn't ask you to. Not really."

Child. Definitely a child.

Against his better judgment, Nadir could not help but offer him the right of a child. "You could stay here. As long as you need to. If you need to. I suppose."

Erik turned to look at him again, for the first time in what seemed to be so many, many hours. There might have been a glimmer of humor in his eyes, but Nadir could hardly be sure. "Thank you. But… no. No, I shall leave you now. Mustn't _always_ hide in the shadows. Must face the day."

Nadir hoped that his relief did not show too plainly on his face. Lucky Erik, with his mask. If only he could learn not to _emote_ so much with his body language… well, if he lived he might learn many things.

One could hope.

They clasped hands awkwardly and Nadir silently prayed for Erik's protection.

* * *

Erik stalked the land like a plague. He went through the city market, along the beach, and weaved around the neighborhoods that surrounded the palace.

What to do, what to do…

It was _possible_ that nothing bad would come to Erik from Sayid al-Davood's death. He had been careful—not a single thing could be found to connect Erik to the crime.

Only the Shah could expose him, or at least use some minion to expose him. Erik supposed that Nadir was now a threat, as well, but he doubted anything would come of that. He was a silly, sentimental fool, that Daroga.

Erik took some comfort in that.

What to do…

So it all hinged on the Shah, like everything else in this accursed world-within-a-world of Mazandaran.

How did one neutralize the threat of an absolute monarch?

Erik supposed he could hardly give Naser al-Din the same treatment as Sayid al-Davood, though that would have a certain _poeticism._

Erik's stomach rolled at the memory of last night, and he was caught being vomiting and laughing, crying and singing. There had been an element of horror to the entire thing, as befit a danse macabre. But there had been something else, something that snaked around the innate repellence the deed incited. It bit at Erik. There had been that chill sense of professionalism that he had not known he had possessed and had been proud to discover. And…

It was not joy, Erik told himself firmly. Something, springing from his oldest memories, told him that joy at a death was a _sin,_ and that a sin was a monstrous thing indeed _._

No, it was not joy. It was… relief.

Al-Davood was unknown to him. But the man could have been an enemy to Erik, or could have _become_ an enemy—God knew that Erik had a talent for making them. But a dead man could hardly hurt you, now could he? The young man may have never hurt Erik _before_ , but now it was certain that he _never would._

Erik's world was a better place, all for the loss of one person.

Was it a fair trade? Erik hardly knew.

One thing was certain. If the Sultana found out about the whole business, she would laugh.

And she did have the most wonderfully tuneful laugh.

* * *

Erik had little idea how long he had walked, though it hardly mattered. Mazandaran had barely started to rouse by the time he was back at the palace. He took the chance to change his clothes and brush his hair.

It would never do to go in before the Shah in an _untidy_ state.

He walked across the royal grounds openly and with a swagger. No doubt the Shah would be conferring with his ministers at this time of day, but probably quite casually in light of last night's type of festivities.

The guards did not deny Erik entrance. Why would they? Erik nearly giggled, giddy. It was a mad game he had come to play, like holding a half-loaded pistol to his own head.

He was announced and allowed into the Shah's presence.

A dozen other officials were there, adding their personal flocks of secretaries and underlings to the Shah's own brood. They scarcely paid Erik attention as he went through the formal motions of greeting and obeisance.

The Shah's eyes were heavy, but he nodded and half-smiled at Erik. Business continued as usual.

"Your Highness," Erik pitched his voice to carry through the entire room. "I have completed the assignment you gave me."

Business did not stop, but it did slow. The Shah looked at Erik, a little confused, a little irritated, and, as realization overtook him, rather pleased. This gamble might well pay off.

"It is done?" the Shah asked.

"Yes." Erik stared at the Shah. One more word—one more phrase—that was all Erik needed. He had enough of an audience, enough in the way of _witnesses._ Just a word… "I hope to your satisfaction."

"I'm sure," the Shah said. After a moment, he added. "Why, yes. Yes, very good."

The messenger arrived then, with better dramatic timing than Erik could have hoped for. Oh, yes. This could be quite… a triumph.

Sayid al-Davood was dead. Sayid al-Davood was _murdered._ And as the Shah, who everyone knew had little in the way of lost love for the young man, responded _perfectly._

He grew quiet, and he looked at Erik, and every eye in the room followed suit. And those last words resounded- _yes, very good._

Let the Shah's Court— so adept in the art of dissembling, in reading nuance, in catching innuendo—reconcile themselves to _that._

Erik merely tilted his head proudly, and when the Shah nodded to him, left without a word.

* * *

Erik knew the Persians well enough to expect that the news would travel on wings. But he had not expected the changes it wrought to happen so quickly.

Erik walked the palace grounds, and whenever he allowed himself to be seen, people flinched away from him.

They had always done that, of course, but in a different manner. They had a gleeful sort of horror of Erik—the Shah's pet performer. They had shied away from him, all the while laughing at his grotesqueness. If they were superstitious, as so many Persians were, they had an _intangible_ dread of him, one that was easy enough to ignore at will.

Always there had been mockery and repulsion and jocularity at Erik's expense—and little more besides.

Now, that spark of humor beneath their horror had vanished, and Erik found that delightful.

He took a horse from the royal stables and rode out to the site of the Shah's new building project. It was a surprisingly fine prospect, with thick woods to the south and a view of the ocean to the north.

Erik spent hours there with his notebook. He built a castle out of the sunbeams and birdsong, a fabulous creation that the Shah would never really appreciate. It was Erik's masterpiece, drawn out of that part of Erik that could so easily rule the world. His palace, in his world where he wielded absolute power over life and love and faces.

How easily he could do it. He had watched Sayid's eyes, ruled by terror, as he had looked at Erik's face. He had believed it had been a demon out of Hell to drag him to death, and perhaps he had been right. He was a young, strong man, but utterly powerless against Erik.

At first, Erik had desperately wanted to forget what he had done, and that look in Sayid's eyes. But now? Now, that he was surrounded by his fantasy domain, he knew he ought never forget. It was an entirely too useful thing to forget.

The waves were playing violently with the shoreline. Erik stared at them, king of the world. He laughed and cried and then he sang to the sea.


	9. A Construction

Dawn ascended in shades of carmine, and ground broke on Erik's little kingdom by the sea. The Shah had provided a veritable _host_ of workers. They had swarmed like ever so many locusts, clearing the land at a speed Erik grudgingly recognized as impressive. The perimeter stakes he had been arranging over the past week now stood out at stark attention. He fancied that he could see the palace walls arising from the new trenches, all covered in gleaming mosaic. One had to wonder if lives could be built so easily.

Perhaps. After all, every great building was merely workable materials crafted to form a sturdy and attractive whole. Palaces had wood and marble. Lives—truly great lives, lives worth living—needed power, and ability and—and _respect_.

There was respect to be wrung out of this sun-soaked, sea-kissed land. Erik had set his price of blood, and the Shah had met it—the Shah had exceeded it, which Erik took to mean that there would be inevitable reckonings in the future.

(Erik idly wondered, like a spectator of some morality play rather than the principal actor in his own tale, whether he would rise to the occasion or not.)

It hardly mattered on this rose-tinted morning. He could even stand to ignore the smack of bribery that permeated the entire project, in favor of that warm promise of the future. If the Shah wanted to believe he could buy Erik's compliance, so be it. Erik would be the last one to dispel that illusion.

The men worked without letup until the noon sun reflected blindingly off of the nearby seas. They then retired to makeshift tents to eat and rest, avoiding Erik's glower as he came to observe the result of the morning's efforts.

He smiled, and was glad of his mask. An excited school-boy grin would ill-suit Naser al-Din's all-powerful sorcerer-assassin, nor would it do to have the workmen know how utterly _delighted_ he was at their progress.

A few of the foremen attempted the polite, customary offers of refreshment. For a brief, mad moment, Erik toyed with the idea of agreeing. He would remove his mask and pretend that Death had come to take tea, and then see just how long it took for the men to return to work.

In the end he desisted, for how was he supposed to acquire enough respect to conjure up a real life if he allowed himself to play the sideshow freak? For all practical purposes, he was their lord and master—and what master walked about with his soul exposed to be gawked at and mocked?

Then again, was not Death the truest lord and master of all men, and would it not serve Erik to remind them just how closely he was related to it?

Perhaps. But not today.

He nearly abandoned all such restraint when he caught sight of one particular tent. It was an innocuous enough thing, made of inoffensive pale fabric and did not appear to be _so_ different from all of the other tents that housed the senior foremen. But different it was, and a maddening difference at that. It was the _accountant's_ tent.

That scarred, hesitant man who kept his eyes downcast and his voice impossibly bland was probably sitting in there even now. Erik had railed against his presence, but the Shah had played the fool and insisted that _Feridoon can be of the utmost service to you._

"Are you sure that _I_ cannot be of service to _him?_ " Erik had asked, with a gesture that mimicked an executioner's coup de grace.

The Shah had pulled a face that fell at the midpoint between a disappointed connoisseur and a cornered rabbit. "No. No, you cannot, _Jadugar agha_."

Erik now regretted acquiescing to the Shah's will in the matter. Nothing would please him more than to charge into Feridoon _agha_ 's tent with a Death's head and a banshee scream, giving the little accountant a heart-stopping spasm.

He settled for the next best thing, and accepted the man's perfunctory offer of tea.

He did not drink, of course, merely sat across and stared at Feridoon. The man had the gall to remain unruffled. He wrote with quick pen strokes in a massive ledger, while three scribes made copies.

"I beg your pardon for not entertaining you properly," Feridoon intoned eventually, using all of the properly exaggerated phrases of abashment, "but your men are consuming goods at a remarkable speed, and it is a struggle to keep up with the demand."

Erik decoded this little monologue as: _You are pouring out gold like befouled water, and I do not approve._

Erik did not reply. What could he possibly say to this man? Threats would lack elegance. Chitchat about the weather? Erik had vague impression of people chattering about sunshine and rain clouds, but he hardly thought old washerwomen were fit models for him in the art of conversation. The men at court made pretty speeches about nothing; merchants rattled off numbers and place names in barely comprehensible scrambles. The workers at the palace site made crude joke and told absurd tales. And Erik… Well, he was being driven mad by scratch of pens and the clinks of abacus beads.

He should have just killed the man, Naser al-Din's wishes be damned.

At length he set down his tea glass, still full, and considered the scene before him. "You do realize that you are surrounded by spies," he said. He waved at one of the scribes when Feridoon glanced up. "The Shah's man, of course, and the fat one is from Mahdeh Olia. _And_ another one from the Premier! Goodness, they do like to keep an eye on you, don't they? Trust isn't quite your commodity, is it?"

Feridoon looked back at the three, who were all working diligently at their books and abaci. He heaved the faintest of sighs. "I suppose you'll be wanting to add your own man, as well. I haven't budget for it at the moment."

"Don't be stupid," Erik replied, "if I wanted to know what you were doing, I would hardly be obliged to resort to the ears of sycophants."

Feridoon made a noncommittal sound.

Erik arose, and before anyone else could move, he had snatched one of the ledgers away and left the tent.

The scribes were cursing and shouting. Erik heard Feridoon sigh and the sound of pen on paper resumed.

It became a routine. Sometime during the day, while everyone else was loitering about, Erik would find and harass Feridoon.

Erik blamed it on the Daroga, of course. Nadir had been sent off on some errand or the other, and Erik found it terribly dull to be deprived of such a wonderful scapegoat. Feridoon was not an ideal substitute—the Daroga, at least, could be incited to anger—but he would serve in the interim. Now, if only Feridoon would react a _bit_ more...

Today, Erik had turned all of the tea in the camp blood-red and laced it with a harmless bit of copper.

Feridoon merely grimaced whenever he took a sip. Erik wanted to turn the teapot over his head and then push him out into the open, a mess of burns and not-quite-blood stains. But then there would be the Shah, tsking at him, and the Daroga looking vindicated with his smug frowns. Erik couldn't have that, now could he? Silence dragged on.

"I need more men to put up the frame," Erik said.

Feridoon flicked two beads on an abacus across their rod. "There are already more workers assigned here than any other royal project in the Empire."

"Of course there are. I've seen what they're doing at Golestan Palace. It's a disgrace. Besides, we need to be further along before the winter storms begin. I will not have snow settle on unfinished wood."

"It rarely snows this close to the coastline," Feridoon replied. "…But if you can trim some of the material expenses…"

"Cut _material_ expenses? You are a fool, Ali Jah—"

There was a commotion coming from the woods—the sound of a large party, many horses and the odd rattle of a tambourine. There was laughter, as well, and Erik had a fair guess of who was intruding.

Feridoon looked up from his account books with an indifferent blink. "Royal trumpets."

Erik glowered at him. "'Royal trumpets,'" he mimicked, "surely your indifferent heart is _criminal._ "

The scribes had the good sense to look terrified. The accountant merely blinked again and returned to his sums. "I live to serve," he said mildly.

A boy ran in and bobbed in terrified bows to Erik. " _Agha,_ a party from the palace—"

"I know," Erik replied darkly and watched the boy pale. He glanced back at Feridoon. "Won't you accompany me, sir?"

"No," Feridoon said, "thank you."

Erik glared at him for a moment longer, for all the good it did, and then swept out of the tent.

It was a small group of the Shah's women on horseback. They were outnumbered two to one by their dour eunuch guardians, who were in turn outnumbered by waiting women and servitors. Erik's bricklayers were forced to scatter to let the party approach. One tripped on a trowel, and arose with blood on his brow.

A high, merry laugh overrode the mayhem as a lone rider urged her horse towards Erik.

She was a tiny woman, utterly lost in her striped silk outer robes and veils. A second veil in the Arabian style covered her face from the cheekbones down, but Erik could hear the smile in her voice.

"Azrael," she greeted him, curbing her unruly steed. "I'm helping you with your soul reaping today, I think."

Erik spread his hands and bowed. "Sultana."

She laughed again and set her horse at a slow amble, "won't you walk with me, Angel of Death?"

"You tempt fate, Sultana," Erik intoned, but matched his stride to keep up with her.

"I do, yes," she said. "The present course of fate being so very, _very_ dull I can hardly stand it." She leaned down a little. "Do you _know_ what has happened with the kitchens?"

Erik did not know, and could not claim to care—but how wonderful it was for this funny little woman to seek him out and speak with him, almost as if they were equals. "Tell me."

The Sultana huffed. " _Anis al-Dawla_ now has them under her hand. A peasant girl, Sorcerer. I am to dine on menus created by a _maid._ "

"Are not all nobles to be served by maids?" Erik asked.

"No, you silly beast! A noble ought to be served by other nobles," she looked down at Erik through blackened lashes. "Angels, of course, are exceptions."

Erik bowed again and showed her around the construction. It bored her excessively, and Erik was obliged to play same trick with the tea on her ladies. They screamed and prayed, and the Sultana laughed until her kohl ran down under her veil. The only thing that marred the day was the memory of Feridoon drinking his blood red tea with little more than a wince to betray his displeasure.

Then the entire idea came to him in an instant, built from those first glances of the little accountant ensconced in his pretty garden with his fairy bride.

As the women made to depart, Erik whispered to the Sultana, "I do crave a favor of you, Highness."

"Oh?" Her eyes were grinning, and her voice child-bright, "what can _I_ do for an _angel of death?_ What can I do for _you_?"

"Do you know of Feridoon Ali Jah?"

Her brow crinkled for a moment. "He’s none of _my_ concern."

"Ah, but do you know he has a wife?"

The sun was just starting to fade, and a good number of men were busy preparing to leave for the evening. Feridoon and his entourage of pen-pushers were packing up their precious books, and mounting their mules. Erik appeared, and grasped the reins of Feridoon's beast.

"I have done you a favor, _agha,_ " Erik announced.

Twilight cast bizarre shadows over Feridoon's scars, making him look like some defaced statue. "Oh?"

"I have spoken to the Sultana," Erik said, "and she has invited your wife to come and dine with the ladies of the royal harem."

Ah, there it was—the peculiar look in a man's eyes when he comes face to face with death. Anger, misery, missed chances, and fear.

 _Run, little man,_ Erik thought, _run and hide behind your piles of coin and your neat number books. If you cannot love me, then you must fear me—the whole wide world must fear me._

"Thank you," Feridoon said with some effort. He could not keep the tremble from his voice. Erik allowed him to depart, quite satisfied.


	10. A Toy

Nadir had not been born in Mazandaran, but it was now the place he thought of as _home._ It had been fully twenty years since he first came to place, young and with the world at his fingertips. His high appointment had come from the old Shah directly, and with it a generous stipend and a Qajari princess to serve at his table and in his bed. Well, the princess had died young and childless, and the stipend had not been adjusted in well over a decade, and the flattering office had devolved into difficult career of only moderate importance. But Mazandaran had remained, with its emerald forests that still dazzled Nadir's desert-raised eye.

He was surrounded by those forests now, leisurely making his way home from Tehran. Darius was somewhere ahead, his horse set at a more purposeful canter along the vague paths through into the undergrowth. Nadir felt no such compunction. He had completed a necessary and vaguely unpleasant job at Naser al-Din's request, and he was in no great hurry to be given another one. He let his horse amble along a stream, watching otters play at their water acrobatics.

He remembered taking this same route some years before, in the pursuit of a jewel thief. In the end, a tiger had done the job for him. Murderers had fled here, as well, darting around the broadleaf trees. Nadir had once spent three days tracking down a runaway cow for an old farmer's widow. One day, he would very likely be obliged to hunt Erik here.

That thought soured Nadir's mood, and he started to travel with a bit more purpose. At first, he had been delighted to be away from his fiendish charge, but the he found that he really could not _escape_ him.

God alone knew what sort of mischief Erik had found during Nadir's absence. It had been a month, and Erik could find trouble within hours. Precious little news had drifted up to the capital, which could be either good or bad. Nadir could only hope that he would not return to find Erik executed and a knife with his own name written on it.

And even if everything had gone well, there was still the future to consider. Summer was fast leaving Mazandaran, and the Shah's court would soon follow it away. Would the Shah demand that Erik remained attached to him? Or would he stay on the Caspian coast? And if he did, would Nadir be stuck as his keeper? And if so, would that be better or worse for Nadir's already frayed nerves?

Worse, he decided. Much, much worse. The whole affair gave Nadir a headache. He found himself longing for a stream of murders to overtake the land—something, anything to keep his mind away from Shahs and courts and intrigues and young masked men with too much intelligence and too little soul.

Alas, nothing short of the heavenly hosts would save Nadir from those concerns today. He cleared the forests at last and traveled ever onward to the palace at Nowshahr.

Darius had displayed a glimmer of competence—a groom awaited Nadir at the palace courtyard, and a servant stood by with refreshments. Perhaps there was hope for the boy, even if his idea of police work was puffing out his chest and trying to look disapproving. Well. At least he brewed a good pot of tea.

Nadir longed to loiter in the gardens for a moment, but he knew there was no point in putting off his interview with the Shah. With any luck, it would be brief and painless. Rather like the execution Nadir figured would one day come for him.

He wiped off the grime of travel from his face and hands, shook out his robes, and set off.

It did not take long for him to meet with… trouble.

" _Did you miss me, Daroga?_ " Erik's voice—but not Erik, ha—appeared at Nadir's side. For a moment Nadir's eyes roved madly about the long hall, but there was little to see. The walls were paneled with mirrors and every time Nadir thought he saw something, he was confronted by the reflection of his own eyes.

"I did not," he finally grumbled to the empty air. "Who could?"

Erik answered with a demonic chuckle that echoed from all sides. Nadir willed his hand to relax from the hex sign he had unwittingly formed. There was a very good chance Erik could actually see him, and Nadir was loath to give him the satisfaction of appearing disturbed.

"Go away, Erik. I'm tired and busy and do not need to be bothered."

" _Then you had best turn around or you'll walk right into Naser al-Din, and we all know how_ tedious _he is_."

"I shall not dignify that with response," Nadir said primly. He noticed a beat too late that he was now in earshot of the Shah's guards.

Erik did not deign to answer and Nadir was left glaring at the confused men.

He was admitted into the Shah's presence quickly enough, despite appearing to talk to himself.

"I am glad you came, Nadir," the Shah said, "I had wished to speak with you privately."

Nadir had to wonder if Naser al-Din knew the first thing about privacy. A dozen retainers milled about him now—even when he slept, four women stood as sentinels right by him.

"Well?" the Shah asked. He had a large book of maps before him and was making notes in the margins.

"The murderous traitor has been discovered and apprehended, Your Majesty," Nadir said.

"And executed?"

"He is under such a sentence, Sire."

"Make sure it is done. I do not care for my cousins being killed."

Nadir supposed he ought to feel a bit of relief at that comment, but he did not. "Yes, Sire."

The Shah looked up from his atlas. "The murderer—he was a Russian agent, yes?"

Nadir hesitated. "It did not appear so, Your Majesty. Amir Daroga did not think so."

The Shah's mustachios wiggled in amusement. "There _was_ a reason I dispatched you, Nadir Khan. But I am sure there is much for you to attend to here."

Nadir took this dismissal graciously and began to bow out.

"A moment more, Daroga—" the Shah made another note in his book before sparing Nadir a glance. "How was our cousin Yosef killed? One hears such stories."

Nadir hesitated again. "He was strangled, Your Majesty."

The Shah considered this for a moment and then waved Nadir away.

* * *

When Nadir at last made his way home, he found Erik waiting for him.

And given the state of the sitting room—used teacups piled on a tray, papers stacked on chairs, and an abused _tar_ sticking out from under the rug—Nadir was forced to conclude that Erik had occupied the space for far longer than the few hours since their hallway conversation.

"I see you've taken up residence," he said, dropping on to the divan unceremoniously.

"I was doing you a favor," Erik said, "I trust neither your cook nor your steward. Nor do I trust your errand boy, but he was hardly a concern this time."

"You've been terrorizing my servants?"

Erik's gold eyes were fixed on Nadir's face, his black masked unsmiling.

"Training them. You see, I have reached a conclusion."

Nadir raised a wary eyebrow. Erik took this as encouragement to continue.

"You Persians are _lazy,_ " he declared.

"Is that all?" Nadir asked.

"Is that— ugh." Erik huffed and reached down to pick up the _tar_. He plunked the strings one by one. "I think you're melancholic. The _Mirror of Princes_ suggests high pitched tones for the melancholic temperament." He started to strum the instrument accordingly.

Nadir winced but soon found that the music Erik seemed to be pulling out of the air was quite soothing. "I see you've found the time to start studying the classics."

"Well, I had to amuse myself. Your cousin Feridoon wasn't much… _fun._ " Nadir was about to reply tartly, but the song had taken on the winsome tone of a lullaby and he found that he would much rather listen to it than complain.

"As I was saying— _lazy._ Given the option, you do nothing for yourself. Actually, given the option you do nothing at all. One sees it from the steward who loafs about when his master is away right up to Naser al-Din himself. Just look—the Shah sends you off hither and thither to run his errands. Could he not go to Tehran himself?"

Nadir had not realized that he closed his eyes until he was obliged to open one to look at Erik. "Are you suggesting that the _supreme ruler_ of this empire should _personally_ attend to every piece of business that is connected to him?"

" _I_ do," Erik said.

"Really? I hear that you're building this palace on the coast. Am I to believe that your hand is in every detail of its construction?"

"Everything," Erik asserted. "I have laid out every design—inspected every brick—gone over every inch of the construction myself."

Nadir blinked at him. "Do you sleep?"

"I—that is not the point." He had seemed to come to the end of this subject and set aside the instrument. "So you catch murderers."

"From time to time." Nadir willed himself to arise and call for a light meal. His steward replied with uncommon promptness.

"How?"

"Are you asking me how to get away with murder, Erik? You seem to do that well enough on your own."

God help him, but the boy seemed to flinch at that. When he spoke again, his voice was singsongish and mocking. "I do beg your pardon for trying to have a _conversation._ I thought Persians _liked_ to talk about themselves. It seems to be the only subject most of them are educated on."

Nadir considered him for a moment, looking him over critically. Dear Lord, was the boy _trying_ to be _human?_ Nadir supposed it was an improvement over _magician_ or _ghost._ He sighed. "Different crimes are investigated differently. No two are the same—no two murders are the same, no two thefts are the same, even when the villain is the same." He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a square of folded silk. "This man used a technique that has been seen in Kashmir and Punjab, but with something I had never quite encountered before, " He pulled out a long coil of wire fashioned into a crude noose. Blood stained it near the knot. "He strangled his victim with _this._ "

Erik took the wire and examined it closely. "Piano wire."

"How can you tell?"

Erik pointed the end towards Nadir. "Copper core."

"And you know that piano wires are made of copper… how?"

"I play," Erik replied.

"Do you?"

"Hm."

"Where did you learn? Not at Nijni Novgorod, I think."

Erik hummed vaguely. "My mother played piano. Did you say he _strangled_ a man with this? Oh, yes, I see it." Nadir nearly choked on his tea when Erik slipped the wire around his own throat and tightened it carefully. "If I move the knot over the jugular—ah, yes, just a little pressure—"

"Stop it," Nadir commanded. "I see you've simply stored up all your mischief for my return."

Erik laughed. "Oh, Daroga. When will you learn? Mischief is life, and I am the _living_ Death."


	11. A Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who watched Love Never Dies for the first time ever last night? ...I really felt like I spent two hours of my life watching the most questionable fanfic ever. I know I'm years late to the party but, wow. Anyway, a few questions will be answered about the little sultana in today's chapter.

Dearest Shadi,

In a moment, I shall write a word down. It will, no doubt, conjure up a slew of absurdly inaccurate images and ideas in your mind. This is perhaps my fault, for I could have educated you more thoroughly, but I did not. Bear with me as I rectify that oversight.

The word is:

_Harem._

A long time ago, I learned not to use this word in Europe. All they think of are scenes out of one of Gérôme's paintings: indolent women loitering nude in a bath house. Not to say that there were no lazy women in the Shah's harem, or that they did not indulge in the luxuries available to them. But it is telling that the _French_ created the term _odalisque._ With it, they turned every chambermaid into a concubine and every concubine into a courtesan.

I want to say the truth is simpler, but we know that truth is never simple. But the truth is _different_ , at least.

Ambition was the byword of the Persian harem. One might attempt to depend on the whims of the Shah's favor, but who would want to build on such quicksand? The surer path was one of hard work.

The ladies oversaw most everything, from running the palace coffee lounges to organizing the Shah's travels to engaging tutors for the royal children. In return for their diligence, they were rewarded. The highest ladies were given their own establishments, had the right to collect taxes—and had a better chance of securing position and power for their favorites.

During my last years in Persia, one of the most powerful women in the land had been born a peasant. She went from being a serving girl to being titled a wife, gaining charge over the Shah's own quarters, even the crown jewels. She had the ability to make and destroy anyone she pleased—and all without ever having been to the Shah's bed. Our European friends would not quite believe that, I think.

Of course, like everything made with that Midas touch of royalty, such prestige was always in danger of disintegrating. The Court was ever false and fleeting, and power was its most persistent deceit.

When I was first introduced to the ladies of the harem, it was the soft-spoken Fatima-Sultan who was just ascending to prominence. The Shah had renamed her Anis al-Dawla, _Companion of the Sovereign,_ and she would go on to be beloved and to hold great power most everywhere.

But _most everywhere_ is not _everywhere_ , and in this case, _most everywhere_ was not _Mazandaran._

There, the woman of the hour was a small creature named Soraya.

(Not that anyone ever called her that. Before she had been given to Naser al-Din, she had been a wife of one of the old Kurdish sultans, and she insisted on keeping the title.

"I am a _sultana,_ " she would say, "and what are the rest of you?"

I wonder if anyone ever pointed out that the Persian sultans were little to brag about. As a captain of the royal treasury, Feridoon was a sultan—and I certainly never bothered to claim being a sultana.)

Strangely enough, she served as my gateway to the harem world. Feridoon returned home one evening, after he had been at the construction site for Erik's great palace. He was tense and drawn, as usual, and without preamble told me that I was to go to the harem the next day.

"Oh, what have you done?" I laughed at him, thinking that it was some service he had done me. I have never thought of myself as a social creature, but the tight isolation Feridoon preferred to live in had tried even my tendency towards introversion. I missed the company of my sisters, and I thought perhaps my husband had noticed I was growing lonely in addition to being alone.

"Nothing," he replied, in a harsher voice than I was accustomed to hearing from him. "I had nothing to do with this!" He stormed away—well, a bit of an exaggeration there. He trudged off under his familiar rain cloud and locked himself in his library with a water pipe. I did not see him again until the next morning.

He entered into my chambers while my maid was going over the day's wardrobe with me. He dismissed her and also rejected the mantle she had pulled out.

"I will not," I said slowly, trying to break through this dampening gloom he had surrounded himself in, "I will not embarrass you."

He half-smiled, barely laughed. "You cannot believe that is my concern." He pulled out one of my finest jackets—green and gold brocade, I still remember—and handed it to me.

"What then?" I asked. I stared at him, impolitely so, daring him to answer me. Over the last night, it had become firmly entrenched in my mind that he was ashamed of me—or did not trust me—or that somehow, I was at fault. The thought had angered me, and though I had tried for mildness, I found it failing me. "How can I hope to do right by you, if you do not tell me what is _wrong_?"

He stared back at me, and after a moment kissed me. I never quite knew what to do with him when he kissed me like that—he was part way between a shy lover and condemned man determined to have his last wish. He broke away and whispered, " _she will eat you alive._ "

And he left.

I heard his horse being saddled, and I listened as he rode off to attend to the day's business.

I tried not to allow my anger to bleed over into the rest of the day, but it was difficult. It colored my first real look inside of the Mazandaran Palace, and made me impossible to impress. The luxury of the harem precinct was beyond anything I had personally experienced—some of the high-ranking servants wore costumes that rivaled my wedding trousseau—but I did not care. I was the wife of Feridoon Ali Jah—hellfire, I could have insisted they call _me_ Sultana—and I would not disgrace him, and I would not fail him, and I would not fail myself.

It turned out not to be such a production. I was ushered into one of the tiled gardens, where some of the women were amusing themselves with a little toy boat floating in a fountain. Musicians played off the side, and a group of young children chased butterflies. Servants were carrying trays of beautiful sweets—marzipan in the shape of lions, and little cakes dusted with gold, and plump dates stuffed with almonds.

And in the center of it all, sitting cross-legged on an overstuffed cushion, was the Sultana. I say she was at the center of the activity, but like a fixed axis around which everything else whirls.

They say she was very beautiful, though I know of no one who ever saw her without a double veil. Even at feasts and picnics, she kept her face half-covered, though what I came to know of her made it into a mockery of piety.

She caught sight of me quickly, though I had not even seen her glance in my direction. "You're our little farmer girl!" She called to me, and had me sit near her. "You're much prettier than I would have thought." She did not sound pleased, but it was hard to tell. Her Persian was heavily accented with the more Arabian pronunciations—harsher consonants and more guttural stops. And with the veil—well, who ever knew what the Sultana was thinking?

That first afternoon I spent with the harem was not unpleasant, though I always had the most unnerving feeling, like I was part of a drama and did not know it. I knew nothing of the politics of this kingdom within a kingdom, and I never occurred to me just _who_ I was passing my time with. Sometimes I could just kick my young self for my ignorance, but, really, no one yet knew what the Sultana would become.

How she came to hold the land under such a thrall, I hardly know. She was little more than a child—fourteen, fifteen perhaps— and acted like one even as she used her most womanly charms.

I can solace myself that, at the very least, I left the harem that day with a bad feeling.

The Sultana had led me about the place, introduced me graciously to this person and that person. And her eyes were ever laughing—I could hardly keep myself from looking about, trying to find the joke. Before I departed for home, she took me into one of the more private rooms, where one of the Shah's wives sat with her newborn.

"Another ugly little girl," the Sultana commented, leaning over to look at the infant very closely. "She would have been left on the dunes where I come from. The sand usually smothers them before the jackals arrive—though in summer, they simply burn."

The new mother burst into tears and fled with her child, though she was barely out of the sick bed. It was impossible to say if the Sultana was serious or not—but when she looked at me a moment later, I would have sworn to God she was smiling beneath her veil.

I think I then realized that _I_ was the joke, and that the punch line had yet to come. I left soon after that, and was glad to. But the Sultana let me know, in very few words, that I would be obliged to return. And one day, the joke would finally be finished.

I imagine all the harems of the world are the bad with the good and the good with the bad—because what is a harem but a congregation of people making up a whole? And what are people but black and white muddled hopelessly into grey?

It just so happens that, despite the gracious and good people I would meet in the Shah's harem, the little Sultana cast a very large shadow that tinted the whole of that world dark.

Perhaps, then, it is better if we let the Europeans keep their flesh-toned fantasies. For the more I think on the reality of the place, the less I like to.

Perhaps I shall start up with the truth again in my next letter and for now leave you with a lie:

It was all flowers in bloom and fragrant sweet tea and beautiful dancing girls in chiffon— and we were all happy during those rosy hours of Mazandaran.

_Mojgan Khanum_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was tempted to turn the historical Anis al-Dawla into Leroux's Sultana, but by all accounts she was an absolute sweetheart. Not quite what I wanted, so you have the totally fictional psycho Soraya instead.


	12. A Boy

Darius clearly remembered the first time he saw Nadir Khan. It had been raining hard, and Darius was disturbed by the loud knock at the door—it sounded like a crack of thunder heralding doom, he had thought. That likely had more to do with the fact that he was learning to read out of the epics rather than any real suggestion of ill-omen. It was too late for one of his father's customers to be stopping by. Even if it was a customer, his father had not yet returned home.

With that thought in mind, Darius determined that he would _not_ go to the door. Instead he would stay by the warm fire and finish up the stitching work his father had left for him. Then a second knock came, even sharper than the first, and Darius jumped to his feet almost against his will. He cracked the door open, trying not to let in the cold air.

The Khan stood outside. Not that Darius _knew_ he was a prince of the blood, but he was dressed like one. He had on a long cashmere coat, richly ornamented but badly muddied and stained. A large gilt sword hung off of a pearl-studded belt. His beard was conservatively long, but he wore an astrakhan hat in the latest style.

"This is Hossein the tailor's home?" the man asked. Darius wanted to flinch away, to escape those sharp eyes, so weirdly pale against his dark skin.

But his father taught him how to be mannerly, and how to mask nervousness with politeness.

"Yes, _agha,_ " Darius said, "but he is not home."

The man had stepped in without an invitation. Darius could hardly have refused him, anyway. "And who are you?"

"I'm Hossein's son," Darius replied, trying to stand tall.

"Your name, boy?"

"Darius."

"Darius? Da-ri-us?" the man repeated. He seemed to take up the better part of the room, and when he went to stand in front of the fire, he blocked out most of the light. "Not Daryush?"

It was an often posed question and Darius gave an often repeated answer. "Baba says that _Daryush_ can be hard to pronounce, but that _Darius_ is the same name for all the Westerners. So it doesn't matter if we become allies of the English, the French, or the Russians—they'll all be able to say my name."

The Khan had the most peculiar expression on his face. He looked exhausted—like Father last month, when he needed to complete a large order and both his assistants were ill. He looked sad—also like Father, in the months after Mother had died. And for a moment, he looked a little amused. Also like Father.

"Baba says," Darius continued, "that we cannot avoid the future, so we should try to greet it graciously and with hospitality."

The Khan snorted. "Unassailable logic." After a moment, he added, "don't worry. My mother named for the most hated of the Shahs. We all bear the weight of our parents' generation." He continued to just stand there, looking a little lost, and making Darius ever more confused.

"If you hang up your coat there, it'll dry faster," Darius offered, "You can wait for my father."

The man did remove his coat, but he lost the glint of humor in his eyes. "I'll not be waiting for your father. Is your mother at home?"

Darius informed him that his mother was three years dead.

The Khan grew ever graver. "Have you uncles, then? Or older brothers?"

All that remained of the family was Darius's grandmother. "She's probably in the kitchen, _agha_."

"Fetch her," he commanded.

Darius obeyed without a thought of how odd the request was. And his grandmother complied with little fuss, leaving Darius in the kitchen to tend the fire and make tea.

It was not long before Darius heard his grandmother's voice, raised in a heaven-shattering wail. Darius dashed out to her rescue. She was doubled over on the couch, sobbing, while the Khan still stood stiffly by.

"Ah, Darius," he said, as if the woman's tears were just another part of the outside storm to be ignored. "I think I ought to tell you of your father—"

"He's dead," Darius said. It was obvious. What else would reduce his grandmother to such a state?

The Khan nodded. "Now listen to me carefully. Your baba did nothing wrong. It was simply unfortunate circumstances— _it was not his fault_."

Darius could remember murmuring _Inshallah_ softly, could remember how the Khan winced.

"I know the man responsible, and I will see your baba will receive justice. I promise you—he will have justice."

He left a small purse of gold tumans with Darius and departed. The door closed with another doomsday crash, but Darius did not quite come out of his stupor.

Eventually he did, and he eventually noticed the Khan's fine coat left up to dry.

It was sad how badly damaged it was, for it was remarkably fine fabric and workmanship. Darius could now see that some of the stains were mud and some were blood. He washed them out carefully, and wondered if the blood belonged to his father.

He mended the tears and mimicked the woven pattern with embroidery where the damage was too extensive.

Darius tried on the coat when the repairs were complete. It brushed the floor on him, though he recalled it was just knee-length on the Khan.

He asked and begged and pestered everyone he could think of who might know the man. At last, someone figured that a tall, dark nobleman who bothered with trifling murders was probably Nadir Khan—the Daroga of all Mazandaran, who lived just near the Nowshahr Palace.

Darius did not allow himself to be daunted. The Khan had promised that there would be justice, and Darius thought that justice was probably a very difficult, a very _costly_ thing to get. So he wrapped up the coat and borrowed a neighbor's donkey and left for Nowshahr.

The Daroga's steward did not want to admit Darius, and it was only lucky timing that the Khan happened to notice his visitor at all.

He was less frightening in the daylight, though no less tired looking.

"Darius," he said, after a brief moment of thought, "the tailor's son."

Darius had been mentally composing a speech ever since he had left home at dawn. Something about gratitude and hope and gallantry—it was gone now, and he simply held out the coat.

The Daroga took it thoughtfully, looking over Darius's handiwork. He sighed. "Tell me, Darius, how well do you make tea?"

Perhaps that was actually the first Darius saw Nadir Khan. He was tired, and sad, and ever so determined—and ever so kind.

And it was for _that_ man, who had not changed a jot in the five years since, that Darius willingly went out to speak with the Sorcerer.

The Daroga had told Darius more than once not to refer to Erik _agha_ as _Jadugar agha._

"He will be entirely too pleased by it," the Daroga grumbled, "and he is a boy— not a magician!"

Well. If Erik _agha_ was a _boy_ , then Darius was a _baby_.

Darius supposed that God alone knew what Erik _agha_ really was. God, or perhaps the Devil. That face—that face was seared into Darius's memory like a waking nightmare. He had seen it three times over the past few months, and it seemed to become worse with each revelation.

Darius had seen much in the service of the Daroga. He had seen the victims of violence, beaten and mutilated beyond recognition. He had seen corpses, decayed and wormy. They repelled, but always one was able to think _here now was a man, here now was a woman._

With Erik _agha…_ one looked, and one saw Death, with all his powers of the supernatural. Where was the man—where was the _boy_ —in that face and with that voice? Had there _ever_ been one underneath that grinning hellion visage?

These were very bad thoughts to be dwelling upon, if Darius would soon be face to (thank God for His mercy) mask with the creature in question. He willed himself into composure as he approached the construction site.

He was about to ask where Erik _agha_ was, when a fearful scream came from one of the tents, followed by a mad cackle that seemed to shake the very foundation of the new buildings. Well, that answered that question. He braced himself, prayed, and touched his dagger before going off towards the mayhem.

He recognized one of the servants from the treasury office, cowering outside of the tent. "Erik _agha_ is in there?..."

The boy trembled. "He is arguing with Feridoon- _sultaneh._ "

From what Darius could tell, it was less of an argument and more of a tirade. His grip tightened on his dagger hilt. Not that it would do much good. Darius had watched Erik _agha_ take down better men—even the Daroga—with his superhuman speed and strength.

"I am here to deliver a message to Erik _agha_ from my master, the Daroga of Mazandaran," Darius said. The words comforted him. He was here to discharge a duty—a _quest_ — and he would not fail it. There was a lull in the violent speech, and Darius entered the tent, already half-bowing.

A scribe was huddled in the corner, lips trembling with fear. He held a blood-soaked cloth to the brow of one of his fellows, who cried and blubbered like a child.

Feridoon _agha_ sat utterly impassive in the center of the tent. Papers had been thrown about him, and an ink horn appeared to have been emptied over his head.

 _The Living Death_ stalked the place, launching curses out in what Darius could only assume was the language of the damned. His mask was gone, and Darius gave in to the impulse to look down and screw his eyes shut.

After a moment, he heard someone clap, as if in delight. "Why look! The Errand Boy's errand boy!"

Darius lifted his head. " _Agha._ "

The monster flung his arms out wide, as if it was in his power to bestow the whole world on Darius. "And what can we do for you, dear boy? What is it you have come to _bother_ us and _irritate_ us with?"

"My master—"

"You are all dirty slaves to someone!"

Darius paused, and trembled, and then began anew. He bowed his head again. It was a sign of respect, he told himself, not fear. Not horrible, gut-turning fear. "The Daroga does ask that you attend on him this afternoon—"

"He summons?" Darius felt Erik _agha_ come closer, like a cemetery chill. "He calls for Erik to come to him? He calls, like Erik _is a dog to obey his command?_ "

Darius looked up, and found the monster's face mere inches from his own.

_Here now was a—was a—_

Here now was Death, here was Azrael the Archangel of Death, here was all the dying and damned of the world—and Darius was staring into his face, and into his eyes.

He saw his father, awash in blood. He saw the world, condemned to flame for its unholy horrors. He saw himself, with a twisted neck and an unmourned passing. He saw—

The next thing he saw was Feridoon _agha_ , standing over him. Most of the ink had been cleaned off his face, though it still smudged into his scars and glistened in his trim beard. His mouth was set grimly and helped Darius up.

Darius did not expect Feridoon _agha_ to say anything—the man was infamous for his reserve, and it seemed unlikely that he would communicate more than necessary to a servant. Darius was therefore surprised when the man sighed and spoke.

"He is," Feridoon _agha_ paused, and then seemed to force himself on, "a _horrible_ man."

"He has a wonderful voice," Darius offered. "He sings like an angel." He felt ill, like he had been slain and then forced back to life.

"Does he?" Feridoon _agha_ commented. "Well. I've never been able to tell setar music from screaming peacocks, so what difference is it to me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a confession. In the early days of this story, way back in 2012, this was one of my favorite chapters. It felt like a digression then, but I was so charmed by Darius I couldn't help myself. So, herein is an example of a story escaping its author's control. I never managed to get it back.


	13. A Picnic

Despite the blood relation between them, Feridoon was an infrequent guest in Nadir's house. Nadir was hardly offended—Feridoon was an infrequent guest in _anyone's_ house.

But it was hardly surprising when he appeared at Nadir's door the day after the _incident_ with Erik. He had brought his little wife with him, and was glancing at shadows like a marked man. His wife looked a bit more equable. She tried smiling at her husband, a gesture Feridoon replied to with a hopeful grimace. One would have thought they were going up, hand-in-hand, to their execution. Nadir watched the interplay discreetly, letting Darius serve the refreshments.

Conversation was painfully bland. What else could it be? Nadir tended to listen or—to his chagrin, Erik was correct about this— monologue. Feridoon had cultivated an entire lifetime of silence punctuated by bland remarks about the weather. And the young woman? She took over Darius's tea-serving duties with surprising elegance, and offered nothing to the conversation.

It had been an occurrence of some note in the Court, when Feridoon had married. It had long been assumed that he had been angling for a royal bride. Why else serve the Shah so diligently, so faithfully, and so _discreetly,_ all the while turning away the overtures of powerful prospective fathers-in-law? Nadir was probably alone in being unsurprised at his cousin's unassuming match. Of course a man who had watched endless intriguing come to cruel ends—of course such a man would find comfort in simple, silent bride who looked by turns like a mother and a sister and a village maiden.

For the moment, Nadir wished Feridoon had also thought to add _gifted conservationist_ to his matrimonial requirements.

Feridoon conspicuously avoided mentioning Erik, or Erik's temper tantrums. Well, if he was inclined to ignore the subject, Nadir certainly would not bring it up.

"I take it you are coming to the picnic tomorrow?" Nadir asked. It was perhaps the most political question he had asked that evening, but he was quickly running out of suitably dull topics.

"We are obliged to," Feridoon replied. "The Shah has requested my presence. And the Sultana has… invited Mojgan."

Nadir looked over at Feridoon's wife and smiled at her mildly. "It is a credit to you, Lady."

For an instant her look of bland serenity quirked into something sharper, something rather like sarcasm. Not that such a gentle girl would use such a device, no. "I am cognizant of the honor, _agha_."

Feridoon was staring at his wife intently, as if expecting her to say more.

There _was_ more, Nadir hazarded, and took Feridoon's intense stare as his cue. "You have been a frequent guest among the Shah's ladies, I think?"

"I have attended on them a few occasions," she said.

"The Sultana seems particularly fond of her," Feridoon added.

Nadir picked up the train again. "The Sultana is new to Mazandaran. I know little about her."

"She us different from many of the other women," the little wife said, slowly, as if she had to ration her words. "She is very young. And, at times, she is difficult to understand."

"She is not Persian," Nadir supplied. "And tastes vary."

"Yes," she said. Feridoon prompted her with another prolonged stare. "Her sense of humor is especially… foreign. It is almost incomprehensible to most."

Nadir stared at her, and she stared back. "Do _you_ comprehend it, Lady?"

She blinked. "No, _agha,_ I do not."

"Does _anyone?_ " Feridoon said. This was a strange dance he was choreographing, but Nadir thought he could now discern where it was leading.

"I don't know," she said, and Nadir imagined that he could see a shadow of a past argument between man and wife. "Though she is most pleased when the magician comes to entertain."

Nadir bit his tongue until he was sure he could keep his voice even. "Erik entertains at the harem?"

"From time to time," Feridoon's wife said.

"You've seen him perform, then?" Oh, how Nadir longed for the direct question and answer of an official interrogation—something told him that the lady would agree with him. As for Feridoon… well, who knew what Feridoon would prefer? Given how this whole affair was staged—and how many of the man's family had died due to a lack of _discretion_ —Nadir imagined he was perfectly content with the innuendo.

"I have not," she said, "I have merely heard of him being there. Properly, of course, in the outer gardens, with the nannies and guards all about. Sometimes he sings, sometimes be does magic tricks, sometimes he just… makes the Sultana laugh."

Nadir was silent for a moment. "Erik also a peculiar sense of humor."

Feridoon bared his teeth in something that could be charitably called a smile, "as I had gathered."

Nadir drummed his fingers on his knee for a moment. "Perhaps, I should speak to him—" _for all the good it would do—_ "so he does not disturb the ladies overmuch."

"I think some people would very much appreciate that," the little wife said. She did not glance at Feridoon.

"I do not think he intends to be cruel," Nadir added. The words sounded flat and meaningless to him. How often had he listened to such weak protests in the line of duty? _He's a good boy, really. I would never have imagined he could do such a thing. He had his moments, like everyone, but I can't believe him to be a killer…_

The wife was regarding him carefully. "Cruel? No, I don't think _his_ humor is cruel. Merely, uncomfortable."

"Ah. I hope he has not discomfited you," Nadir said, "we are family, after all."

Her eyebrows rose thoughtfully at this. She wore them in the classical fashion, arched and painted out almost into her hairline. The poetical term was _like the wings of a bird_ , and in this case, it rather fit. "I am quite all right, _agha_."

"Nadir," he offered. "But if it does become uncomfortable for you—"

"It will not," Feridoon cut in. "Mirza Saeed requested that I return to the treasury office at Tehran to sort out a bit of an issue they are having. The Shah— _alhamdulillah_ —has consented."

"You depart soon?"

"We would have gone today, if not for tomorrow's _festivities._ " Feridoon was quiet for a moment, and then said. "Tehran is rather nice in the autumn."

They were spared more observations on the weather when Darius approached. Nadir half-wondered what he had thought of the entire conversation. He probably thought it was a perfectly normal exchange. Perhaps. "A palace messenger for Feridoon Ali Jah. He's to return with him at once."

Whatever emotion Feridoon had allowed to surface in Nadir's parlor instantly faded. "Of course. Ah—Mojgan—"

"I'll see your wife back to your home," Nadir said.

Feridoon arose. "I thank you. I—we shall see one another tomorrow, at least."

Farewells were made, and at the end, Nadir was left standing awkwardly at the door with the wife.

"I put myself at the mercy of your whims, _agha_ ," she said coolly.

"Do I strike you as a whimsical man, my lady?"

"No," she said. "Nor does Feridoon, but here we are."

"He worries," Nadir offered. When she did not reply, he signaled for Darius. "Come now, I shall escort you home."

* * *

Nadir arrived late to the Shah's farewell fete.

He had a better excuse than usual—a mullah had been murdered—but he knew it would not serve him well to be absent from Court today.

Arguably, it was an informal gathering: a picnic where even the Shah's wives mingled freely, and guest list was kept to an intimate half-thousand.

Nadir had to wonder where Erik was. He saw Feridoon, conversing with the other over-serious men. He spotted the wife—Mojgan— in among the harem ladies, her veil extravagantly edged in pearls. The Shah was laughing with his favorites and bestowed a benign smile on Nadir.

Nadir passed a moderately pleasant first hour, chatting with men he was either vaguely related to or who were vaguely in his debt. By the second hour, the food was being served in earnest. Erik had yet to put in an appearance, and given the way the Shah's jaw was working, Nadir supposed that he was _late._

He finally stalked in like death. He had finally started to adapt to the Persian mode of dress, though he forwent the majority of fashionable decorations. They were a curious look on his tall, lean frame, and he stuck religiously to black.

Naser al-Din motioned for him to begin whatever entertainment had been arranged.

Nadir settled in, warily watching. God alone knew what he had in store.

He started out with a simple folk song, a single setar player accompanying him. At the second verse, he hesitated, and after a moment he _croaked._

Nadir nearly spit out his tea. Croaked like a frog.

Erik coughed, a long hand at his throat. After a moment, he attempted to resume the song.

Croak.

_Croak._

The Shah was ashen. Most of the courtiers were awkwardly looking at one another—the little Sultana sitting by Mjogan was laughing. Nadir felt himself tense. If this was sabotage—if Erik was angered by such a public humiliation—if Erik lost control—

If Erik lost control, who could stop him? Certainly not Nadir. Certainly not Erik himself.

To his relief, Erik merely stormed away, and after some minutes, the festive spirit started to revive.

Another hour passed. Nadir had been tempted to go and find Erik, but had decided against it. What good could come from confronting him—or, _comforting_ him? Still, perhaps he should try to find him before he left for the evening…

The sound of a growling tiger was not unfamiliar to Nadir. He had been on hunts, and there were the nearly-tame specimens in the Shah's menagerie. But it was a bizarre sound to hear just outside the Palace—and it rang out over the entire assembly, coming from every direction, gaining in strength. A tiger? Ten tigers? A thousand?

Erik, of course.

Erik, Nadir hoped.

There were screams, when a great orange beast bound through the crowd. The guards looked around at each other wildly, rifles poised but unaimed. The tiger was launching itself this way and that, growling, but not attacking.

The Shah must have noticed that last, critical detail, for he held up a hand. Nadir could hardly claim that the panic subsided, but it contained itself, raging just under the surface.

The unearthly roars that surrounded the gathering continued, but started to change. It was a siren song—inhuman, primal, and oh-so-beautiful.

Erik, definitely.

Death returned to the picnic, weaving his way through the terror-paralyzed crowd.

The tiger turned to face the intruder, growling fiercer than before. But slowly, the crystalline music moved from Erik's throat to the tiger's own mouth.

They were both singing now, something like a cosmic love song. Erik led the tiger back through the crowd, and the music faded. Life might as well have faded away.

Nadir felt the spell dissipate, and managed to look around.

A thousand jaded courtiers were enthralled. Some were manslayers, Nadir knew. Almost all were liars. They were cruel, shallow, ignoble—

He saw the little Sultana, hiding in her mounds of silks. Her head was tilted curiously to one side.

He's gaze settled on Mojgan. Her kohl had run down her cheeks, but when she noticed Nadir looking at her, she smiled.


	14. A Dream

After three weeks—or had it been a month?—of intense, unrelenting work on his _kingdom by the sea,_ Erik gave into Nadir's pestering that he ought to take a break. He left the construction site before nightfall, attempted to choke down a plate of chelo kebab, and threw himself into bed, resolved to sleep for a few hours at least. When that failed, he drank three bottles of disgustingly young Shirazi wine. Unfortunately, he also happened upon a left over plate of bamieh. The result was a night tormented by unusually vivid nightmares.

A wan woman sat at a concert piano, a lace shawl slipping off of her porcelain shoulders. Her long fingers were poised over the keys and she announced, " _This is Handel's capriccio in G minor_."

Erik wanted to tell her how wrong she was, that she was playing a Circassian folk tune, but he found his lips sewn shut. Panic blinded him for a moment—he clawed at his face, a howl trapped in his throat, imploring the woman to cut through the threads and to _stop playing the wrong song._ He realized then that he was in the rafters above a stage. He fell forever, until the waters of the Caspian swallowed him. The pale woman looked at him from just above the surface, her head tilted. Erik tried to beg her aid, but she could not hear him. She looked pensive for a moment, like a Venetian Madonna, and then disappeared as Erik sank ever further down.

The blue-eyed accountant was waiting for him at the bottom, surrounded by gold coins and glittering jewels. The sea water magnified his scars bizarrely, until his entire face was barely recognizable. He turned the pages of his ledger, and wrote down Erik's name under the column entitled _Debit._ Or was it _Damned?_ He sighed at Erik and said, "Cherchez la femme, pardieu! _Cherchez la femme._ "

Erik complied and looked around until he saw the Sultana, lulling on silken pillows and gutted sturgeon. Roe spilled out of their opened bellies and caught in the currents.

The Sultana arose, strangely pale and green eyed like the Russian rusalkas. She cut through the stitches that closed Erik's mouth with her painted fingernails and laughed when she drew blood. She called him a frightful beast, laughing all the while, and commanded him to kiss her.

He reached out through the water and removed her veil. The skin of her face came along with it. She laughed again, raw muscle pulling into a rictus grin. Blood flowed from her, polluting the water until the whole world was red. Still he kissed her, for she _let_ him. And then everything was blood, nothing but ruby red blood, in his eyes, his mouth, his nose…

He awoke violently ill, and spent the better part of the morning failing to fight off nausea.

For the first time, he regretted turning down Naser al-Din's offers of supplying him with a servant body. At the time, Erik had been revolted by the implied invasion of his privacy. Now, he was revolted by the thought of getting up to make tea. He tried snapping his fingers.

Nothing happened, of course, great magician that he was.

Fools, the whole world of Mazandaran was fools. They couldn't tell the difference between a magician and an illusionist. Erik could, even in this muddled state. It was easy: one was real, one was not. But, oh, what he would give…

It was some little time before noon when Erik at last pulled himself out of bed. The lethargy, he decided, was due to his distracted neglect of his person over the past several weeks. It most certainly was _not_ due to over indulging in wine and sweets.

His pet palace could survive a day without him. Perhaps. _Probably._ With that hopeful thought, Erik set about righting himself. He washed and hacked his hair into some semblance of order, scraped off the absurd black wisps that comprised his beard, and shook out the clothes he had left scattered around his quarters.

Erik would not go so far as to say he felt more _human_ once his space and person was tidied, but he did feel _better._

He avoided the temptation of his sketchbook. Nothing good would come from it, he was sure. He already had more rooms outlined than there was space for in his palace, more _entertainments_ devised than there was currently an audience for, and more suppositions of what the Sultana looked like under her veil. The night's imaginings came back to him, and he winced. No, nothing good would come of the sketch book today. Well, there were books to be read and new illusions to devise— and music.

His collection of instruments had been rather neglected of late. Lutes and dulcimers and goblet drums— _tars, santurs, zarbs,_ Erik repeated to himself— sat in one corner of his living room. He picked up his latest acquisition, a tar with mother-of-pearl inlay. It was a pretty little gift from the pretty little Sultana, but soul-shatteringly out of tune.

Well. Erik could fix that. He plucked at the strings and adjusted them accordingly.

Music was a curious thing. Erik did not think much of it. It was just a tool, an ever-present tool. As long as he breathed, he would never truly be without an instrument.

His voice forced people to trust him, to believe whatever verities or vagaries (or vulgarities) the notes presented them with. Surely that was the whole point of music: to tell a tale and wrench sympathy from the listener. To make a person understand, to force them to hear what they might refuse to see.

Erik would think it terribly sad, if it wasn't so much to his advantage. It was lucky that Erik _knew_ music, that mastery over it came so easily. He saw how some struggled – the Court musicians came to mind—for years. And for what? So little was accomplished. Perhaps they would gain proficiency in one or two arts, if they were very lucky.

Poor little humans, with their unsteady fingers and unreliable throats and untrue ears. How awful it must be, to live with so many _boundaries._

…But if _being human_ was such a sad fate, why should Erik bother himself trying to be one? Why try to force himself into their tight mold, to live with them and like them? Why not build his own little kingdom? Somewhere far from timid or curious eyes, a place where he could sing to the sky and never cause or be caused trouble again.

Ah. A cave, then. An empty, lonely cave.

It would probably be damp.

No. No, it wouldn't do.

Not yet, at least. By Erik's best guess, he was just over twenty. Did he really want to spend the next fifty-odd years even _more_ isolated than he already was?

He was a bit too vigorous in tuning the tar, and one of the strings snapped.

Damn black moods. They were as inevitable as nightfall, and Erik doubted this would be the last instrument to suffer from them. He turned a sigh into a hum (lest be become too much like Feridoon Ali Jah) and pocketed the tar string.

Perhaps something could be done about it—after lunch.

* * *

Nowshahr _without_ the Shah in residence was rather like Nowshahr _with_ the Shah in residence. The marketplace was quiet during the afternoon, most of the vendors reclining in the shade idly. Those who were not napping murmured at Erik's presence, though they were quick to quiet when he looked at them.

_It's the Shah's sorcerer._

_They say his mother was a devil's whore._

_He uses his black magic to hide his true face from the Shah… how else can you explain him still being here?_

How comforting to know how _little_ people varied from one place to another. Who would have thought that a sunny Persian fishing town would be so like a bustling Russian trading center or a distinguished old Italian city or—

Or even a sleepy little village in Normandy?

Erik approached one particular man, who openly kept his hand on the nazar hanging in his stall. Erik nearly laughed at how the man flinched when he was obliged to step away from the amulet to serve his _customer_. (Erik also nearly laughed when he noticed that the man did not refuse the monies give him. _Oh, Lord, deliver us from temptation, indeed_.)

Erik departed with an ironic bow and hot buttered broad beans. He did not pay a visit to the wine merchant.

It was tempting to go off and find some nice spot overlooking the coast, to eat his lunch in peace and find solace in the undeniable beauty of the strange country he had found himself in. The mask quashed that whim, for he could not eat with it on, and he _would_ _not_ remove outside of his house.

Perhaps it was time to make a new one, something more civilized that this blank black broadcloth. Something that better mimicked real face, something _distinguished_ …

"The devil returns to hell, then."

Erik slowed. These were not the words of some superstitious tradesman, or frightened village woman.

"I hear he herds the swine for Satan there," a second voice added.

How _—how—_ had Erik failed to hear the approach of three men? Laborers by their looks, strong men. And evidentially suicidal.

No. No. No. He could not think that way. He was _Erik_. _Jadugar Agha,_ they called him. _Agha_. _Master._

_Lord._

Who did _Lord Erik_ need to fear? Who would dare to raise a fist against him?

Well, perhaps they would not strike him, but they certainly had no qualms about knocking his fava beans to the ground. And _they_ , it turned out, were five.

Erik watched the beans fall. Was it just him, or could he hear each one as it dropped into the dirt? What funny little shadows they cast! Long shadows in the late afternoon, making each small bean seem three times its size. It was a wise tactic, Erik supposed, one often used by animals. Sometimes the aggressors would depart, if they realized their prey was simply too large.

He thought he might try to imitate the pale green beans, but as he straightened and squared his shoulders, a fist connected with his mask.

It did not dislodge—he had tied it _very securely_ that day—but the idea that it might have enraged Erik. He caught the next blow and returned it, caught another and returned it three-fold.

But five men! Four, maybe, but _five?_ There would be no help from the not-so distance tradesmen, of course. There never was. Bad odds, Erik thought, and he did not think he could get away with his childhood tactic of letting attackers beat on him until they grew bored. No, these brutes would take stronger measures to ensure his demise than a kick in the ribs or tossing him twitching into a canal. No, these were the sort of ruffians that played with _knives_ or _swords_ or maybe even _pistols_. At the very least a hammer and chisel, and somehow that simply seemed _worse._

And Erik? What did Erik have? The fifth man landed a blow that temporarily floored him. His mask finally came off, dust covered. Erik stared at it; empty eye holes stared away from him. The coiled string from his Persian lute had tumbled out of his pocket and lingered in the dirt. The mask seemed to look at it.

The Daroga's voice spoke into his ear. Or was it his heart? What _did_ men listen with, really?

_He strangled his victim with this._

_…_ _He strangled a man with this? Oh, yes, I see…_ Erik's hand closed over the catgut as he came to his feet. _Over the jugular—ah, yes, just a little pressure._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I have no comment on the quantities, I can attest to the fact that dry white wine and what basically amounts to honey-soaked doughnut holes is not a good combination. I don't know what Erik was thinking. It seems to me that this whole mess could have been avoided with a nice bowl of soup. That said, writing a brilliant character when you yourself are not a genius is peculiar and at times frustrating exercise.  
> PS: the wine bottles Erik would have been able to get his paws on were likely quite a bit smaller than what we're accustomed to these days. Otherwise, the tragic affair of the Phantom of the Opera would have been averted by alcohol poisoning.


	15. A Fortune

Dear Shadi,

Paris has become a bit too much for me these days, so I have repaired to the house at Lillebonne. I doubt you ever saw Normandy as a strange place. And one would think I would be used to it by now, but I am not. It's such a peculiar shade of grey-green at this time of year, with lime stone peeking out here and there and the Seine the color of lead. It is absolutely nothing like Persia.

Regardless, I force my nurse to walk with me in the afternoons. She always protests that there is a chill in the air and that I should not exert myself so. What she really means by that is that I am an old woman and ought to know my place.

(I told her recently that I forgot my place long ago and have no intention of rediscovering it. She pretended not to understand my accent.)

She told me today that we could motor instead, but I would hate to. I would loathe to become one of those old women who hide in their chaises, bored with the scenery and bored with life. No, so long as my legs will carry me, I shall walk. And when I can no longer walk, I shall acquire a wheeled chair and make my staff push me.

I believe she rather dreads that day, but at least she knows _her_ place. She trudged behind me for nearly two hours today, and listened as I tried to figure out just how to say what I wanted to in this letter.

I'm not sure if the walk helped. (Talking to Nurse certainly did not.)

It's funny how much I think of my old country now. For years, it was just a place I had left behind. I would miss it from time to time, but I always lived in the present.

But since I have started writing to you on the subject, I find myself lost in the past.

I look out my window at this muted landscape and see my father's fields, white for the harvest. We pass by gothic cathedrals resounding with Latin hymns, and I hear _allahu akbar_ coming from blue tiled mosques. My chef serves me bisque and baguette—I taste _ash_ and fresh baked _barbari._ Last night, I awoke while it was still dark and was absolutely sure Feridoon was sleeping next to me.

Well. I will not worry unless I one day look at my mirror and see some dark haired, smooth faced girl looking back. Until then, we shall simply carry on.

I told you of Mazandaran, of the Sultana—of Erik and his glorious, tiger-taming voice. It had become the setting of my own strange fairytale, my honeymoon with life and my poor worn knight. Not even the Sultana, with her off-color whims, could destroy my equanimity. But we left all of that behind once autumn came. Feridoon was called to Tehran, and my life changed again.

I had grown very fond of Mazandaran, but I was thrilled to finally see more of the world. Not that Tehran was a particularly distant horizon, but it was something new and therefore quite exciting. We had taken a coastal route when Feridoon brought me from Ghazvin into Mazandaran, and had so bypassed the capitol city altogether. In retrospect, that had no doubt been by design. But now we just had to go, and I was glad. I pestered Feridoon all through the journey there to tell me something of what I could expect.

He started by talking of the treasury officers there, and the accounts he handled, and how he would probably be obliged to travel more. I listened, I hope patiently, and at the end asked, "but what shall _I_ do?"

He considered this. "You'll be obliged to _socialize_ more," he said, as if I was submitting to a very unpleasant operation. "I'm not entirely sure what the ladies do. They entertain for their husbands, which you'll be obliged to do on _rare_ occasion. They entertain one another far more frequently, and I shall leave that up to your discretion. They shop monstrously. You can purchase most anything in Tehran."

"You will need to be careful," I teased him, "or I shall plunge you into debt."

He acquired a peculiar small smile at that, almost smug. "I should like to see you try."

My first recollections of Tehran are muddled and hazy, but I clearly remember the house—and remember thinking that the house spoke volumes as to how different Tehran was. I had expected another modest little place, like our home in Mazandaran. Feridoon had not led me to imagine anything different. He had called it 'a house, rather like any other house.' He had purchased it years ago from a conservative old family, and had paid for it to be restored, but not much _changed._ So a charming old house, I thought. A little out of fashion, but perfectly suitable.

What I did not expect was a grand old estate built in high Isfahani style, with a dozen marble pillars and a foyer tiled in mirror and gold. I did not expect the cheerful staff of eight from Mazandaran to be absorbed into an efficient body of forty. Nor did I expect to wake up the next morning and find my husband clean shaven and dressed in a cashmere frock coat and silk necktie.

"Well," he said, "it's Tehran."

For a little while, I wanted to despair over Tehran. I thought of my father's cotton fields and how I would run through them as a girl—how the fine silks Feridoon attired me in would snag and shred there. It did not help that Feridoon's prediction had come to pass—nearly every week, he had some responsibility or another that took him away for days at a time.

I rallied. I forced myself into a routine of social calls to the other political wives, and by the time winter came I was mostly at ease. The Shah had left Tehran shortly after his arrival in favor of one of his other estates, and the Sultana had gone with him. It was a blessing that allowed me to grow closer to some the more pleasant _harem_ women I had met in Mazandaran.

Whenever Feridoon was away, I played at being a cosmopolitan lady. I would stay at the townhouses of my new friends. I became a particularly frequent visitor of Maryam Khanum. She had been one of Naser al-Din's minor temporary wives during the first years of his reign, but soon found herself divorced and given to one of the Shah's favorite ministers. She kept one of the grandest houses outside of the palace, and the role of society hostess seemed to suit her better than being hidden away in the harem. She would wear European bonnets instead of her veil and called her circle of respectable married friends _disenfranchised harlots._ One wanted to be offended by her off-handed manner, but she was simply too pleasant.

I started to play the tar again, which I had mostly given up after my mother's death. Most of the women I spent time with were musical—or pretended to be—and sometimes hours would be passed by a warm fire, a half-dozen of us tinkering with our instruments. Feridoon (who I think, looking back, must have been tone deaf) handled the hobby gallantly, but _would I mind waiting for him to leave before I practiced?_

Sometimes when I would go to Golestan Palace to visit, I would simply stand in one of the great, mosaic-covered colonnades, and let my eyes be assaulted by the colors and endless arches. The world was endless and strange and there for the taking—until one blinked.

Over all, they were pleasant days. Almost lazy, I suppose, but filled with good cheer and hope. I held fast to Feridoon's earliest advice to me, to be discreet and silent, and it served me well.

As winter came to a close, Feridoon was constantly away.

("Everyone knows that they _need_ money," he told me, "but they haven't the faintest idea what it actually _is._ ")

The Shah was expected back in Tehran for the start of Nurooz, and I hoped Feridoon would manage to return by then. I loathed the idea of facing the holiday without him.

But there was no sign of the royal party or my husband in the days before the New Year. The last Wednesday of the year—Red Wednesday— found me with Maryam and her friends again. She called us _political widows_ , as the lot of our husbands were away in the Shah's service.

"But we won't let that stop our fun," she declared. We veiled ourselves and went out into the city to watch the revels. The evening was alight with bonfires, men jumping over them in the typical rite. Maryam made me climb up onto Fath Ali Shah's Pearl Cannon—such was the custom for childless wives. Of course, the women followed up the ritual with detail explanations of what _I_ might be doing wrong, or what _Feridoon_ might be doing wrong, in that I was nearly a year married and not yet with child.

Maryam took this all a step further and proceeded to give detailed instructions on what I should do _correctly,_ but I will not make you suffer the details. Given your current _interesting condition_ , I can only assume that you do not require further instruction.

In retrospect, I rather laugh at that entire conversation. One of the most important features of Red Wednesday is _fal-goosh_. It is believed that the last Wednesday of the year is an especially good day for divination, and it is traditional to find a hiding place, eavesdrop on someone's conversation, and then divine what it meant for your own future.

I can only imagine what some innocent fortuneteller saw in their future from _Maryam's_ conversation.

How strange.

I had completely forgotten what my own fortune had been that night.

Maryam had ushered me into a darkened storefront. We stood silent, trying not to giggle. Two dour men were walk past us, and the one said—

_Well, the little woman will be his death, of course._

Maryam laughed as we came out of her corner. "Well, I know what the New Year holds for me!"

I said it hardly seemed like a laughing matter.

She swatted my shoulder. "It means that my wicked ways will finally give my husband the heart attack he so keenly deserves." She paused for a moment. "But I wonder about you?"

I had never much believed in fate, and I told her as much.

"Don't you?" she asked. "It seems to me that the only people who can afford to dismiss the notion are those who are in control of their lives." In an uncharacteristically serious tone, she added, "neither of us can claim that power, I think, Mojgan-joon."

Feridoon returned the next day, looking tired but not entirely miserable. He commented on the spring cleaning I had embarked upon, approved of the new clothes I had ordered, and admired the _haft-sin_ I had arranged. He generally seemed pleased at the prospect of Nurooz, which surprised me.

"Everyone knows that how you behave and feel on Nurooz dictates how the rest of your year goes," he said. He seemed quite earnest, which I found funny.

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"Of course I do," he replied. "I know I'm not cheerful by nature, but I try for Nurooz, at least."

I think I must have looked rather incredulous, for he ended up with something of a sheepish smile.

"I didn't say that I always succeed," he said, "but I can tell you this: last year was the best Nurooz I had ever had. I cannot recall ever having been happier. And this past year? Most certainly the happiest so far."

I don't remember what I said to that. I may not have said anything. But I do remember holding Feridoon's hand, and thinking that perhaps there was something to the silly superstition after all.

I tried, for Feridoon's sake, to be particularly pleasant that Nurooz, as well. It became a bit harder after the Shah came to Tehran. After all, he brought the Sultana—and Erik.

But more on that later. It's stopped raining, and I think I want to pester my nurse to take me into the gardens.

_Mojgan Khanum Banu_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter comes with a bit of a cultural glossary, for your convenience:  
> The Persian New Year, or Nurooz (literally, New Day), falls on the Spring Equinox—usually towards the end of March. Typically, extensive house cleaning immediately proceeds it. Theoretically, this is to get rid of the previous year's dirt and mess and bad luck. Practically, Nurooz involves quite a lot of house calls, and it really is better to have everything clean for visitors! New clothing is also usually purchased and worn.  
> The haft-sin is a display of seven ('haft' items that all begin with the Persian letter 'sin,' each symbolizing some positive attribute. Among these items is a dish of sprouts (wheat, barley, or the like) that grows throughout the New Year celebrations and then meets an… interesting end on the thirteenth day of the New Year. That day happens to be called Seezda Bedar, and we will be learning more about it in coming chapters. :p End lecture.


	16. A New Year

Sometime after the verdant forests of Mazandaran gave way to the more sallow highlands of Tehran Province, Nadir ran into a shepherd. The flock was cutting across Nadir's path. He had chosen to wait. His horse stepped high in impatience before finding a patch of edible greenery to amuse itself with. The shepherd had bobbed a bow in Nadir's general direction, far more concerned with the mass of woolly beasts under his charge than courtly manners.

Nadir was underway in good time, and the entire incident should have faded from mind. Travel was constructed of hundreds of such moments, indistinct in their multitude. But this one stuck with him, and Nadir found himself wondering how such a life would suit him. What would it be like, to be beholden to nothing but pasture grounds and weather? What would it be like, to be a simple tender of livestock—not a tender of men?

Perhaps it really wasn't so different a life than the one he led. Fair weather allowed the shepherd to stay close to home—so a Shah in a fair mood allowed Nadir peace. Predators of lambs kept the shepherd armed and wary—so enemies of order kept a sword at Nadir's side and an executioner at his call.

Nadir wanted to laugh at himself. To make the Shah as inevitable as a winter storm, to claim man as uncontrolled as beast, to equate simple performance of duty with life itself. It sounded absurd to his educated ear, but it held true in his heart. His heart beat, therefore he served.

So it had been for as long as Nadir could recall—so it would be until there was no one left in heaven or on Earth to serve.

Erik would not stand for such a life, Nadir thought. Thousands had rebelled against a life lived at another's behest. If he wasn't mistaken, the Americans far across the seas were fighting a war over some such matter even now. And yet—

His father had always found his joy in service. He had lived and died in a useful, if unglamorous position. Rather like—well, rather like Nadir was doing now. The difference was his father had done so with a dozen children at home and a permanent smile on his face. Nadir supposed that he had Darius, who rather like an over-earnest nephew. And he supposed that he had Erik, who was rather like… an Erik.

God alone knew when last Nadir felt like smiling.

Surely, there was still time for all of that. Surely, the boy who had stood before Fath Ali Shah, all earnest servitude hidden by peacock pride, looked out from Nadir's eyes. And if he looked out from Nadir's eyes, surely he could see the bits of good Nadir had accomplished over time, and surely he could smile at that.

Surely, but no. Not while the older and sadly wiser Nadir looked around and knew _it was not enough._ It would never be enough. There would never be enough happiness in the world for Nadir to happen upon it for himself, and he was wholly unwilling to steal it from someone else.

But. But. He could be content and the surest way to contentment was being of use.

And so, Tehran. Tehran, though Nadir hardly thought he would be _useful_ there. But the Shah had commanded Nadir to meet him there, and Nadir went where he was commanded to go.

He ended up crossing paths with the Shah's party some distance outside of the city proper. At first, Nadir thought it would be the sheep incident all over again, and he prepared to wait out the train. It was the sort of thing only royalty could manage—a mass of people, a mobile city in state, with the entire accompanying infrastructure on horse and palanquin and foot.

Some sharp-eyed denizen had recognized Nadir in spite of his unpretentious travel garb. He was soon ushered into the heart of the world-within-a-convoy.

The Shah was ambling forward on foot. His fine Arabian gelding was walking close by with a groom holding the reins. Perforce, Nadir dismounted and walked alongside him.

"I think we shall have very fine weather for the New Year," the Shah said by way of greeting. He was trying out his French again, and Nadir grudgingly followed his lead.

( _Your French is comparable to the Shah's_ , Erik had said. _He has a larger vocabulary to misuse, but your accent is a little better._ After a moment of reflection, he had added: _but I'd rather you did not offend my ears by attempting to improve by means of repetition._ )

"It usually is, Nadir replied.

The Shah shot an amused look at Nadir, and switched back to Persian. "Is the Magician with you?"

"No. He said there were some things that had to be done on the… palace before he left Mazandaran. But he ought to be in Tehran by tomorrow." Nadir did not tack on an impolitic _I hope._

"I hear that the new buildings are impressive," the Shah said. His voice was entirely too neutral of Nadir's liking.

 _What else have you heard, Your Majesty?_ He wanted to ask badly, but knew he better not.

There had been that terrible moment with Erik some months back, when Nadir thought the end had come. The boy had blood on his hands—his hands, and on a scrap of wire. He had been saved by circumstance, by the off chance that some had backed up his claim that he had acted in self-defense.

If it really was self-defense—which Nadir had professionally endorsed, but privately questioned—it was certainly a notable one. Nadir had seen the bodies. Four of the five men who had attacked Erik had been slain. The first one had been alarming, to say the least. Sloppy workmanship, murder done in fear rather than malice, but horrifying all the same. Bruises blackened the whole of the man's neck, blood had poured forth from where the wire had cut and torn the skin. It was impossible to say if he had been strangled or if he had bled to death. The other three corpses were a study in frightening proficiency—each one a cleaner, more efficient demise than the previous. The final man had barely a sign of what caused his death left on him.

And then there was Erik. Erik, who must have had the very grace of God keeping him from real harm. Erik, who had come out of the whole affair with steady hands and darting eyes. It had taken weeks before he would really speak to Nadir—to anyone. He communicated with his workmen by notes, penned in off-putting red. As for Nadir, if he was lucky, Erik might speak to him _of_ Erik.

_Erik doesn't want to see you right now._

_Erik is doing fine. Why do you keep bothering Erik?_

_Erik has nothing to say to you._

Nadir had finally snapped and asked, "If you are not Erik, _who are you_?"

That had been met with silence at the time, but a few days later Erik had stopped by and said, "I want a glass of tea."

Nadir might have cried for joy. But it soon became apparent that this was a _new_ Erik, a different beast altogether. This was not the devil-masked singer from the fairgrounds, nor the shake-shouldered boy assassin of months past, nor the unpredictable but not unpleasant Erik _agha_ that had been slowly emerging. No, this was a grim Erik, unnervingly self-possessed in public, but immensely secretive and always armed.

Nadir did not like this Erik—and he had an unpleasant suspicion that this Erik was rather out of his reach.

The Shah was still talking about the new retreat in Mazandaran. Nadir made the appropriate replies. Yes, it really was quite something. Yes, it was being built astonishingly fast. Yes, it was fit to be a royal residence.

"Well, so long as he arrives in time for the festivities," the Shah said at last. He looked skyward again. "I think I shall ride on ahead a bit. Goodbye, Nadir."

* * *

There was a paradox about people. Actually, there were many, the human race being almost entirely conjured from contradictions, but there was one in particular Erik had in mind.

The more people were gathered together, the less observant they became. The lone man might look in empty shadows or glance over his shoulder. But the man positively surrounded by possible enemies? He looked no further than his own nose.

And so this paradox created another paradox for Erik personally. How he loathed to be in a crowd—but how he loved to be ignored. The people of Tehran were doing a fine job ignoring Erik, distracted by their festival mood. And so he wove through a crush of people, uncomfortable and going mad in the midst of their jollity.

At least _someone_ was enjoying themselves. At least life on whole was not simply there for _all_ to _suffer_ through.

The Daroga would say that Erik was being self-indulgent. Well, what of it? Who else did Erik have to indulge? And if he was going mad—again, as the Daroga would say—what of _that?_ Why bother staying sane in an insane world?

People were singing in the streets. They were laughing and jesting, as if the passing of a year was something to delight in. Erik could not understand it.

(There was part of Erik that wondered if he might have been more understanding if this fuss had been made some time in January, and if there had been galette des rois to look forward to. He thought not.)

Golstan Palace was still some ways away, but Erik could see it peeking out on the horizon like some malevolent fairy city. The sun was just slipping away, and the royal buildings were ablaze with light. Incandescent, as if good fortune was a moth that could be seduced by flame.

Was the palace itself the flame—and if so, were the courtiers actually the moths? And if so, how quickly would their poor little wings roast?

No, no, no. If Erik hoped to be alert enough to survive the night, he could not allow himself to give in to tangents. He must be focused. Focused and alert, alert and wary, wary and ready for whatever the shadows decided to send him.

He haunted the public halls of the palace easily. They seemed to be as full of people as the streets outside. The poor received of the Shah's plentiful charity, eating and laughing as much as the walled off courtiers. It was suffocating. Still, Erik forced himself to be calm, to walk about and observe. No one paid him the slightest heed here, either. After all, when Erik wished to be unseen, unseen he remained.

The gardens were of little relief, until he started to draw closer to the forbidden women's quarters. He situated himself outside of one of the smaller, walled-off areas. It was quiet, and the night was comfortably balmy. Perhaps his frayed nerves would steady themselves enough for him to put in an appearance in the Shah's presence. He stayed near the garden for some minutes, listening to his own breathing. Ah, but here was something else!

He could hear _someone_ moving behind the latticed walls, and his comfort immediately vanished. Perhaps it was just some weary reveler, looking for a similar respite—or perhaps it was something more sinister, perhaps it was—

He stared between the open stonework into the shadowed garden for a long minute before the intruder took shape. It seemed to be something of a lump sitting at the fountain's edge.

After another moment, he recognized the little mound of veils and robes, and his heart rejoiced. Oh, how he had hoped to see her. How he had missed her and her sandstorm laugh. He stayed in the shadows and on the right side of the garden wall, but kept her in his sights.

He hummed vaguely, listening for the echoes of the area, and then threw his voice into one of the bushes. A little birdsong, out of place at this evening hour, drifted into the garden. Erik let it become louder, a bit more structured, until the Sultana clapped her hands enthusiastically.

"My Magician is back!" She exclaimed.

There was no one around to hear her, and Erik let his voice fall to her side. "Sultana."

"Oh, where are you? I can't see you!"

"I hardly wish to be seen."

"Oh, you're outside of the garden, aren't you? You ass! I want to see you! It's been an _age!_ "

Erik glanced at low wall. It would be easy enough to climb… but, no. It would be a pointless risk. "Why are you not enjoying the festivities?"

"Enjoy them? Pah. This whole place disgusts me, _jagariman_."

"Oh?"

"They are horrid people—all of them. I wish you'd kill them all, and then I wouldn't be obliged to suffer them anymore." The pile of silk seemed to collapse in on itself. And though Erik was pleased beyond reason to see his little Sultana again, he recognized a sulk when he saw one.

"Then who would wait upon you?" Erik asked.

"You would!" She laughed and Erik laughed along with her. What a funny image—Erik and his Sultana, all by themselves, dancing over the corpses of this bloated court.

Rather against his will, his mind turned to one of the men who had attacked him all those months back. He remembered his eyes, how they had bulged and burned, and he felt sick for the remembrance.

"Now, now. I could sing for you and make you playthings—but you would need someone else to mend your clothes and cook for you."

She fell into a huff again. "It hardly signifies now! Would you know, they've _economized._ I am a _Sultana_ —and my allowance has been cut."

Erik, who viewed his salary as something of a novelty, pretended not to be confused. "Who would do such a thing to you?"

"Oh, you'll be in sympathy with me, Angel of Death," she said. "It was the ever-in-my-lord's-grace accountant. That wicked Feridoon Ali Jah! Why did you not wring his neck when they set him on your affairs all those months ago?"

Erik had managed to put the man out of mind for some time, but the Sultana's words brought back a rush of memories. The unshakable accountant, who shared the Daroga's talent for quietly manifesting disapproval. "I figured he would have been too missed."

" _Hardly._ "

"Would you have me do something about him _now,_ Sultana?" Erik offered. He loathed the words even as they slipped from his mouth. It was a horrible thought that chilled him to the core, and yet—oh, she would laugh. She would laugh and clap and maybe even let Erik kiss her hand…

For half a moment he was sure she would consent, but her demeanor had changed again. "It's been too long since I've had my Magician about," she said. "I've grown so frightfully independent. I'm having my own fun with him."

He heard the guards entering at the other end of the garden. "I think you're about to be summoned, Sultana."

"I'd rather stay out here."

"But duty calls," Erik teased. He disappeared to her laughter, which followed him like a song. He made his way slowly to the great dining room, were hundreds were arrayed around the Shah. They were rejoicing over the New Year—or at least over the exquisite girls that were dancing for their entertainment. He saw Feridoon Ali Jah at the edge of the room, serious and serene in the sea of revelry. Erik sat down next to the Daroga and waited to be noticed.

It took longer than expected. Erik would not have suspected the Daroga of being so susceptible to wine.

"Oh, Allah the merciful," the Daroga grumbled when he finally did catch sight of Erik. "They put bells on the big cats in the Shah's menagerie. Do I need to get one for you?"

Erik spied a little bell that had fallen off of one of the dancers' costume. He procured it easily and covertly removed the clapper. He then tossed the silent bell back and forth, the Daroga's eyes following the motion. "You may try."

"I'm obliged to keep a closer eye on you, you sneak," the Daroga sniffed. "You're going to have to come with me tomorrow, so you don't cause mischief. Though I loathe to bring you into the houses of my friends and family."

"You have friends?"

The Daroga ignored him. "Come around the house by nine tomorrow morning. If you aren't there, I'll come and find you."

"I beg your pardon, but are you saying that you want me to accompany you on your New Year's Day social calls?"

"I do not want to," the Daroga said. His voice was grim, as Erik imagined any general might be on the eve of war. "But I must."

* * *

Erik had half-expected the Daroga to forget their engagement. It was in that spirit that he showed up at the Daroga's city apartments, ready to annoy him. It was almost a disappointment that the Daroga did indeed recall the conversation, and was still intent on carting Erik about with him.

"How tipsy did you think I was?" he demanded.

"Rather. You were quite free with your speech."

"Of course I was. One _expects_ that from a man who has been in the cups."

Erik observed him closely for a moment. "You—" _befuddle, intrigue, confound—_ "irritate me."

The Daroga smiled, a brief cut of predatory white against his dark face. "We shall see my cousin Feridoon first."

Erik complained about the choice of destinations until they arrived there, arguing that the accountant surely would not wish to see him either.

"Behave," the Daroga commanded, straightening his lambskin hat with one hand while clutching a festival-looking box in the other. Erik had offered to carry it for him, but the offer had been refused in rather unpleasant terms. What did the good Daroga think of Erik, in that he could not be trusted to carry a simple box of baklava?

"God knows what sort of vile substance you might slip in with it," the Daroga grumbled.

Erik did not need to playact his perturbation. With one hand splayed over his heart, he assured the Daroga that he would never do such a thing. "As it is, poisons are only good for cheap tricks. Even the _accountant_ would deserve a better send-off."

The Daroga simply glared at him and made his way up to the house.

The house itself interested Erik mildly, in that it seemed wholly Persian. There were no superfluous French moldings or Italianate railings to be seen—just pure, striking geometry overlaid with exquisite handiworks.

They paused upon entering the covered courtyard with its. The Daroga made a sound of displeasure.

"This is… quite wrong."

Erik glanced about. No, there were no assailants hiding in the shadows nor any overtly aesthetically offensive elements to be seen. "Truthfully, I'm surprised the accountant has such decent taste. His house in Mazandaran is awfully ugly."

"Quiet, boy," the Daroga said, continuing a slow observation of the courtyard.

Beneath his mask, Erik's brows arched. It had been some time since the Daroga had been quite _so_ cavalier with him. He could not decide is he had missed the offhanded treatment or not.

"Perhaps they are not here," Erik offered. The house did seem very quiet, and Erik could not conceive what else the Daroga would be so put-off by.

"Perhaps," the Daroga replied noncommittally and approached the door.

A servant let them in, and the quiet of house was quickly broken by a shuffle of slippers and skirts.

"Is the doctor back, Omid?" It was the wife, of course. Mojgan. Erik hardly knew why he was surprised to see her. It was her own house, after all, and it was a day when she would be expected to play hostess. But if she was a hostess, then she was a much put-upon one. She was beautifully dressed in floral-embroidered green, with a gossamer veil over intricate braids, and henna-tipped hands—but she was as drawn as a corpse, an autumn's death costumed in spring's raiment.

When she realized it was the Daroga standing before her, she tried to pull her lips out of their grim line and smile. She failed.

"Peace to you, Nadir," she said, rather like an actress might declaim her lines, "and to you, Erik _agha_."

"I hope this New Year will be kind to you," the Daroga replied mildly. Oh, the Daroga. He was ever so bland, patient, even. What was he awaiting?

"I do hope," she agreed, her eyes darting between the Daroga and Erik. "I beg forgiveness for such a pitiful greeting—but my husband is unwell. We are hardly fit to receive visitors at the moment."

"I gathered as much," the Daroga said. "A cold brought on by the change of weather, perhaps?"

Mojgan half-shrugged. "I hardly know. He was fine—and then…"

"I would like to see—" the Daroga cut himself off, and Erik realized that he was being stared at.

"My husband would very much like to see you," Mojgan said carefully. She looked over to Erik. "If Erik _agha_ would not mind keeping me company in the sitting room?"

Erik decided to cut off the protests that were obviously forthcoming from the Daroga. He bowed neatly to Mojgan. "Thank you, Lady."

She nodded at Erik and her lips quirked again in a non-smile. It was a funny look, one that almost suggested that they were in conspiracy with one another. That was a thought worthy of a pause. "Omid will show you in to my husband's chambers, Daroga."

The Daroga kept his gaze fixed on Erik in silent chastisement. Erik spread his hands in innocence. _Erik has done nothing. It was the woman. Cherchez la femme._ Still, he departed with the man servant, and left Mojgan to Erik. Or was it Erik to Mojgan?

He followed her into a room that seemed as incongruous to her mood as her celebratory dress. There was a beautifully set table, covered in dainties and delicacies and fresh flowers. It was rather like a birthday feast set up in a mausoleum. The window shudders had been thrown open, but the spring sun could not cut through the too-still gloom. Two women, probably standing in the capacity of duennas, stayed near the walls.

"Your husband was taken ill suddenly, I suppose," Erik said after some time. He could only walk the perimeter of the room for _so_ long. He could feel Mojgan's eyes following him to and fro. She was sitting on a low couch, and he came to stand in front of her.

"Rather."

An idea formed in Erik mind, coming coupled with a whisper of rosewater and the words _my own fun with him._ "He did not fall sick at last night's banquet, did he?"

She was quiet for too long. "I hardly know. He was fine for most of the—well, for some time after we returned home at least." High color crept into her pale cheeks, and Erik wondered for a moment if she was perhaps ill as well. He would not put _collateral abuses_ beyond the Sultana. Indeed, he would rather expect it. "But by this morning, he was doing very poorly. He had such pains in his stomach, and could not take even a sip of water."

He thought he ought to say more, but what was there really to say? Mojgan prompted him with a few question about his building project, and Erik replied technically. She was not an audience he was accustomed to playing to.

The Daroga saved him from a flat encore. "The doctor has come again, Mojgan. I believe all will be well, but we will take our leave of you."

Erik was half-inclined to stay, just to defy the Daroga's highhandedness, but he supposed that would not be _gentlemanly._ Another time, perhaps.

There were well-wishes made and overly optimistic phrases exchanged. But no amount of rote sympathetic magic could disguise the bizarre tableau they made: Erik awkward, Mojgan devastated, and the Daroga—well, the Daroga very mad, indeed.

He stared at Erik, even as they walked on to their next destination. Erik ignored him.

"I don't like to _guess,_ " the Daroga said, "it ill-becomes an inspector to guess. But if I had to guess, I'd guess it to be a distillation of castor bean. Mild, I think. Administered last night."

Erik blinked slowly. "From what Mojgan said, it could just as likely be a touch of a stomach disorder."

The Daroga's fists clenched and relaxed. "Do not dare to presume such a familiar air."

Erik was relieved that the Daroga could not see how he flinched at that. Why should he care what the man thought? Yet the words were too sharp, the voice too accusatory for Erik's taste. "Why are you angry at Erik?" he said. His voice sounded entirely plaintive, and he tried to be firmer. "I've done nothing."

The Daroga was silent for a little while longer. "See that you don't. To play at death underneath the Shah's very eyes—it will not do, Erik. It will not do."

"Well," Erik huffed. " _I_ did not do, either. Don't you believe me?"

The Daroga was silent again.

* * *

It was some days later, when Erik was entertaining the Sultana, that the matter of Feridoon's illness came up.

"Ah!" Her dark eyes sparkled with delight. "Then you've guessed my secret!"

"Have I?" Erik asked. "I admit to not understanding the joke. Make a man sick for a few days—why bother?" Now, giving a man a theatrical fright was worth a laugh, and killing a man was a matter altogether different. But this—this seemed like a half-done job, either way.

"It's because Persians are stupid with their superstitions," the Sultana said. "I thought you would understand. You _always_ understand."

Erik went for an amateurish trick of pulling a rose out of his sleeve. He offered it to the Sultana and she giggled. "Tell me."

She leaned in closer, so Erik could smell the rosewater and tobacco that seemed to cling to her. "Feridoon is an ass."

"There was a time when you said he was no concern of yours," Erik pointed out. It didn't matter that he _agreed._

"Well, you bring the farmer girl to play, and so I concern myself. He thinks that he can make his year good simply by thinking it so for a few hours. The Shah is the same way—it is so _stupid_. You and I know better. But Feridoon—"

The scene arrayed itself before Erik, of a quiet, devout man trashing in agony. "Spent his Nurooz thinking that he was about to die," Erik said, quietly.

"And it is a thought that will haunt him for the year at least. Whether it comes true or not—well! That is another matter entirely." Her eyelashes fluttered, as if she expected Erik to make some reply.

He mulled on the idea for some time. He was pleased that the Sultana was pleased, of course. He was delighted to be in her confidence. But as for the trick itself?

He thought of Feridoon's wife, and her twisting henna-painted hands. How worried she had been! How much fear in her eyes, as if she had been the one facing death.

If Erik took ill, who would stand vigil over him? What pretty woman would pace her parlor and wring her hands over _his_ fate?

When he realized that the answer was a simple _none_ , he also realized the full humor of the Sultana's sally. He laughed at it, laughed at the great joke of an accountant's ailments and his wife's worries. Indeed, he laughed until he cried.


	17. A Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another little Darius interlude, because I love him.

The Daroga had given Darius leave to spend Nurooz with his aged grandmother, on the condition that he would set out _promptly_ for Tehran the afterwards.

Darius had every intention of obedience. Alas, good intentions also led him to humor his grandmother when she said things like: _but we must call on the neighbors, Daryush-joon_ and _what do you think of the baker's daughter, azizam?_

He had therefore ended up in a wild game of catch-up, played on a better horse than Darius would have typically permitted himself to borrow from the Daroga. He made quick work of the journey, stopping only to water and rest the beast. He arrived in Tehran not _too_ many days on the wrong side of _promptly._

The Daroga had blinked and half-smiled at him. "You came sooner than I expected. You should have stayed with the old woman a little longer, I think."

There was something about his eyes that belied the statement. A droopiness was present, a gravity that added years to his face. The Daroga was not one to ask for support, either from a servant or an equal, but Darius knew when it was needed.

Therein was the reason why—had anyone bothered to ask Darius _why_ —he never bothered paying court to the baker's lovely daughter, why he was not was in haste to establish his own home. The Daroga would have allowed it, of course. The Daroga, even when he was gruff or when the gap between their stations was most apparent, was always on Darius's side. Darius replied in kind.

But if Darius left, who would be on the Daroga's side? That is to say, _truly_ on his side, and on no other's. There were times when a man desperately needed someone at his side, to staunch at least one of the four winds. It seemed to Darius that now was such a time for his master.

Darius pieced the story together quickly enough. (The Daroga, perhaps, would have been proud of such detective work, though Darius had no intention of telling him about it.)

Point the first: Feridoon Ali Jah had fallen ill at the first feast of Nurooz— while he had been a guest at Golestan Palace, no less.

Those who were aware of the _ink horn altercation_ twixt Feridoon and Erik _agha_ were quick to point out the latter's late and wraithlike presence at the feast.

Still, to accuse a man—or a sorcerer—of mischief at the Shah's very own Nurooz festivities was a grave charge. No one made it outright. But there were whispers, as there always were. It was a strange illness that afflicted Feridoon and therefore, people said, a magical one.

The Daroga did not believe such a thing, but the pivot of the matter could be found there. What the Daroga _did_ believe was that Erik _agha_ was capable of using mundane methods to achieve arcane results _._ He confronted him with that in view. There had been something like a falling out after that, though Darius thought the usually feral sorcerer's response was quite tame.

Guilt? Or resignation?

The mystery had been abruptly solved in the hours before Darius's arrival.

A harem servant had been heard joking about a prank his mistress had ordered to be played. The joke was poison, the victim Feridoon, the mistress—well! Who cares about the mistress in such a matter?

The joke, once heard, was turned into a confession. In short order, it was determined that the servant had, with malice and of his own originality, contrived to assassinate Feridoon Ali Jah. It was believed that the only thing that had prevented a fatal tragedy was the intended victim's sober lifestyle.

The Daroga wore his especially neutral expression in connection with the idea that it was the servant's own plot. Darius knew that look well. He even knew the words that would have accompanied it, had his master been a less discreet man. _It is the lie that prevents this from ending in a bloodbath._ That the lie would still end in blood—the servant's blood—was a detail Darius felt no compunction to dwell upon. He liked his sleep too well.

Nevertheless, the Daroga had subsequently affected a sort of reconciliation with Erik _agha_.

The conclusion of the matter boggled Darius's mind: the Daroga and Erik _agha_ would be attending the royal horse races on Seezda Bedar, in the company of the nearly recovered Feridoon Ali Jah.

"Is it safe?" Darius asked. He longed to ask _is it wise?_ But he would be damned from here to the world's end before he would question the Daroga in such a fashion.

It did not matter in the end. The Daroga did not seem to hear him. He was brooding over his tea cup. "Someone will control him. He doesn't realize it, but someone will always be able to pull his strings."

Darius did not need to ask who _he_ was. Nor did he comment that _his_ predicament was far from uncommon.

After a long silence, the Daroga added: "We must find some better mistress for him." He continued to stare into his drink, slowly turning the cup.

Darius's grandmother did the same thing, when she told fortunes. She would swirl he tea and watch the stray leaves settle. There was no great mystery to it. One looked, one saw, and one let the mind divine. Absently, Darius swirled his tea and peered into it.

He swallowed it quickly afterwards.

He did not like what he had seen.


	18. Another Picnic

English was not a language Nadir had ever undertaken a study of, but the shouts of the British ambassador's aide needed no translation.

The horses from the Shah's own stables were magnificent. They practically flew along the race course set up for the day's festivities, even the slowest of their number was nothing more than a white blur. The aide was one of quite a crowd of youngish men—Persian, Arab, Russian, French, and English—who had temporarily forgotten their professional chilliness in favor of racing fever.

Nadir was reclined some distance away from the course, but was personally quite amused by the spectators' antics. Erik was baffled.

"What is the point?" He asked, for the third or fourth time. "I don't see a point."

"What is the point of playing a magic trick for a crowd?" Nadir shrugged. "What is the point of listening to the musicians? Leave them to their fun, Erik."

Everything about Erik's posture communicated that he was unimpressed with such a notion of fun. Then again, 'unimpressed' was Erik's primary attitude of late. " _Panem et circenses._ It is still pointless. And boring."

 _If you are bored, why not attend on the Sultana?_ Nadir thought, with a bitterness that took him by surprise. _You always find her company amusing._

"I would rather wait on the Sultana, but she says that the weather doesn't agree with her," Erik lamented, almost as if he could hear Nadir's internal commentary.

Nadir glanced up at the mild spring-blue sky. "Of course." He was hopeful that Feridoon and his little entourage would arrive soon. Erik was the most effective conversation stopper Nadir had ever happened upon. Nadir's oldest friends and acquaintances visited by for scant minutes before hurrying off to less forbidding picnics. Nadir had to wonder if Erik noticed—if Erik thought it odd. Chances were, he would simply be unimpressed.

Strange, that Nadir would have rather seen Erik _delighted_. He was growing sentimental as he approached middle age.

He saw Feridoon in the distance. He and his wife were making slow progress through the crowd. They were constantly stopped by either his colleagues or her friends— the cross-section of which seemed to have increased greatly over the past few months. Nadir remained cautiously pleased for his kinsman. Mojgan may or may not have possessed great political acumen, but she was at least quite capable and a source of contentment to her husband. What more, Nadir wondered, could a man really ask for?

He turned his attention away from their approach for a moment, but quickly noticed that Erik was still watching them. His gaze was fastened on the couple, and Nadir did not like it.

"Is there a problem, Erik?" Nadir asked.

"How did he end up with that face?" Erik asked.

"Feridoon?"

Erik nodded once, curtly, never looking away from the object of his interest.

Nadir's eyebrows lifted. He tried to recall if Erik had ever asked about Feridoon on such a level, but could not recall. He also could not determine if it was a sign of good or ill. "Truthfully, I am unsure of the specifics."

"But it was an injury? He was not born like that, I think."

"No. No, it was an injury. It happened some years ago—ten, or more, I believe."

Erik snorted. "Your investigative skills are most impressive, _Daroga._ "

"I cannot say I have ever needed to investigate Feridoon Ali Jah," Nadir replied. Somewhat against his better judgment, he took a stab at offering Erik some insight. Nadir had not thought it possible, but Erik seemed even _less_ inclined to take advice than he had been previously. However, there was no harm in trying. "There is no need to harass him so, Erik. It will neither help nor harm your cause. Feridoon grants no man favors—and I believe even you realize that he is equally disinclined to extract revenge."

"He grants no _man_ favors," Erik repeated, under his voice. "No _man._ "

Nadir sighed. God alone knew what went on his that brain of Erik's. God alone _knew,_ but Nadir _suspected_ the young man had missed his point. Again.

" _Saint_ Feridoon approaches," Erik intoned, lapsing into French for a moment. It was the first time Nadir had heard Erik speak his mother tongue in many months. He wondered what it might signify, and shuddered.

Nadir exchanged hearty greetings with Feridoon when they finally arrived, and played the gallant older uncle to the little wife. Erik hung back, but maintained a level of civility.

"Please forgive me," Mojgan said, "I'm afraid I delayed our departure." She gestured to one of the servants following them, and the picnic Darius had set out was abundantly improved upon.

"If this is the product, I forgive you," Nadir offered.

"It is _not_ her fault," Feridoon cut in, "the baskets were packed up last night, and we were ready to depart at daybreak. But her _friend_ —"

"I will not have you blaming Maryam," Mojgan cut in. Her playful tone made Nadir feel… quite old.

"I will indeed blame Maryam Khanum," Feridoon said. "She had a New Year's gift delivered to my wife. It is monstrous."

"It was monstrously kind," Mojgan said.

Nadir made a polite noise of inquiry.

"It's a… _piano_ ," Feridoon said. "A very fine instrument. Apparently."

"Maryam had been taking lessons from one of the Russians," Mojgan offered, "but now that the Russians are out of favor…"

"We have a piano in our parlor," Feridoon concluded. "I'm not entirely sure what ought to be done with it."

"Typically," Erik made his first contribution to the conversation, "pianos are _played._ "

"Hm," was Feridoon's only reply. At first, Nadir had thought that Feridoon looked much recovered from his previous illness. However, he could now see a tightness about Feridoon's eyes and lips that belied the picture of health he was putting forward.

Nadir attempted to pick up the thread of the conversation. "Are you musical, Mojgan?"

She had picked a pomegranate out of her basket and had pulled it open. She was deftly working the seeds out into a dish, and did not look up to reply to Nadir. "Musical? I play the setar, but I must say this piano baffles me."

"Can your friend not explain it to you?"

Her rouged lips quirked up. "I can't say that the Russian was able to help to Maryam. Not for lack of trying, I'm sure. I doubt she'll be able to help me."

"Perhaps it's for the best," Feridoon said.

" _I_ play," Erik said. "Teaching it would not be difficult."

Nadir and Feridoon both turned to look at him, though Mojgan stayed focused on her self-appointed task. Erik's eyes appeared to be locked on the pomegranate in Mojgan's hands. It took another minute for her to finish taking out the seeds. Once finished, she glanced up at Erik. She smiled.

"Thank you." She picked up another pomegranate, seemingly unaware of the keen discomfort of her companions.

"Ah—Feridoon!" Some treasury official on a palanquin called out and broke the spell. "I had hoped to see you!"

Feridoon reclaimed his usual bland diplomacy, but Erik was still looking at Mojgan.

Nadir did not approve.

Well.

Well, at least not very much.

There was the irrefutable fact that Feridoon's little wife was _not_ the little sultana, and Nadir thought it would be a very good thing for Erik to spend less time with _her…_

* * *

The festivities continued well into the afternoon. It seemed like all of Tehran was out and dancing, but Erik stayed silent and observed.

It seemed that just when Erik thought he finally understood the Persians, he encountered something new to baffle him.

"What in seven hells are they _doing?_ " He found that he had used Nadir's favored expletive quite unintentionally. Luckily, the Daroga was not within earshot.

Some of Mojgan's women friends had gathered around her, and they all looked up at Erik with wide eyes. The lady herself followed Erik's gaze to two young men kicking a clump of grass between them. "Have you seen the dishes of sprouts everyone has been growing for the past few weeks? They get thrown out today, and last year's bad luck with them. "

Erik jerked his chin towards the men. The plant was kicked again, and another hunk of dirt flew off. "They must have had a _very_ bad year."

Mojgan chuckled at that, and her friends followed suit. Erik smiled crookedly at her. She could not see the smile—thank God—but Erik thought she probably _knew._

"Here," Mojgan pulled out her own silver dish of wheatgrass. "See what you can do with it."

"A challenge?" Erik asked.

Mojgan shrugged. "If you like. Just have it gone by sunset—and don't let my husband see it. He does not need the anxiety."

Erik's mood soured considerably at that, but he brushed it off. He already had a number of tricks in mind—mere trifles—to use on the helpless bit of greenery for Mojgan's amusement. She was did not laugh like some of the other harem ladies. Her enjoyment was of a gentler breed, he suspected. It had to be, for her to be content with her melancholic mate.

And she was content, wasn't she? To the entire world she appeared to be.

Erik thought on that for a moment, looking at the high, green grass growing in the little silver bowl. If all the world was a stage, and Persia was the whole world, then were not all Persians actors? He looked at Feridoon's little wife again, this time through the lens of Naser al-Din and the Sultana.

She was smiling as one of her friends—friend being another word for companion, or colleague, or conspirator, or enemy— made a good move on a backgammon board. It was the same mild smile she gave Erik from time to time.

He looked for hard edges, for delayed reactions, for something _not quite right._

She must have noticed his observations. She looked up at him, still smiling, and narrowed her eyes.

Erik raged at his own gullibility. How could he be so easily fooled? A pretty smile, a cheery atmosphere, a place to idle for a few hours? Was that all it really took to lull him into complacency? Did he fancy that the Daroga or Feridoon were his friends? No! He knew better than that.

Still, he turned Mojgan's bowl of bad luck into a bowl of flame. And she smiled.

Well, Mojgan could to keep her soft eyes and soft smiles. Erik was done.

" _Jadugar Agha."_

Erik glanced to the side to see one of the harem eunuchs approaching him. He gestured for the man to speak.

"The Sultana commands your presence," he said.

Erik grimaced at the wording, but stood and nodded. He looked over at the group of women, and made to move away.

"Erik _agha,"_ Mojgan called after him, her voice light, "Nadir said you'll be joining us at for supper tonight?"

Erik paused. "Perhaps." And then he was away.


	19. A Crucible

My Dear Shadi,

Lord Byron wrote that _truth is always strange; stranger than fiction._ I know that the poet died in Greece, but based on these words I wonder if he had traveled _further_ east.

I cannot be certain if it is a peculiarity of Persia or not, but the royal court yielded behaviors that… defy imagination. Perhaps it would have been better if some of the activities had defied _imagining_. I know my life would have been a bit happier for it.

The weeks following the New Year were among the quietest I ever experienced in Tehran. Feridoon's illness left him disinclined to exert himself. The Shah was uncharacteristically understanding. He lightened Feridoon's responsibilities, and as a consequence, my husband stayed close to home for some time. They were good days, if not so fantasy fueled as those first weeks in Mazandaran. The more I came to know of my husband, the more I cherished him. Though, in retrospect, I suspect I did not cherish him enough. Why must life be so filled with regret?

Shadi-joon, please— we cannot live sinless lives, but, with effort, we may live happy lives. And happy lives lead to fewer regrets. I think. Age has not brought me much wisdom, merely theories and deductions and shaky conclusions. Well, this is my conclusion: latch onto whatever happiness you find, and never let it leave you.

I suppose I'll be constantly begging your forgiveness. You have not asked for my wisdom, or my theories. Just my story. So—

Eventually duty called again, and Feridoon departed. It was the middle of the month of Khordad—early June, I suppose. Within weeks, the Shah's household would be reinstalled at Mazandaran. I was looking forward to going back to my little house. I thought that, perhaps, we would return to our earlier, more discreet way of life.

I did not know—I could not have even guessed that— that late spring in Tehran would be the last idyll for us. There was still love in our house, but never again would there be peace. And love without peace can be as devastating as life without love.

…I will admit that I left this letter unfinished for some hours. I recall, once, that you called me a cold woman. You were correct. I have always been a little cold and my coldness has served me well time and again. Now, alas, this cold woman is crying over a world long gone. It is rather pitiful, if you ask me.

I started out by writing of _strange_ things. There was one specific event I had in mind, for it heralded the end of this era for me.

As our departure for Mazandaran drew ever closer, I received a summons to the harem. It was the Sultana.

While she had for the most part ignored me in Tehran, the summons did not surprise me. I took no great pains to avoid her. I somehow doubt that such efforts would have been effective, had I made them. In any event, the most she would have me do was play secretary for her.

Literacy varied greatly in the women's quarters. There were those who penned verses to rival Hafiz—but there were also ones who, if forced to try, could not have picked their name out of a registry list.

The Sultana fell into the latter category, though I doubt she would have admitted this to be a deficiency. She would merely exclaim ' _I'm bored out of my skull!'_ and bid me sit beside her with pen and paper.

She would dictate letters to me, more often than not in Arabic. I have never been fluent in that language, and I am sure my spelling was atrocious. I might have been ashamed over it—if I had believed for a single moment that the missives would be sent and read. This I doubted profoundly. A few she burned before my very eyes; others she kept, and would spend some time staring at my handwriting, as if she could will the words to speak back to her. I would be surprised if she sent out a single one.

That day, she had me write several.

I think she simply liked to weave horror stories—for that is what my half-comprehension made of her discourses. It certainly fell in line with her taste for gruesome jokes and ghoulish recollections. I could never decide if this predilection stemmed from a desire to excise the blackness in her soul—or to spread it.

My mood was certainly turning a little black as the day wore on. I anticipated making a quick escape, but it was not to be.

One of the younger girls—I think one of the Shah's nieces—came up just as I was about to depart.

"Guess what His Majesty said?" she sat down in a swirl of short silk skirts. "We're playing the light game again tonight!"

The Sultana shrieked—probably in delight, given that she was clapping her hands as well. "Oh! You will stay to play with us, Mojgan!"

I tried to demur, but by then a number of the harem ladies were about, and all were chatting excitedly about the evening's amusements.

From what I could gather, the Shah had recently instituted a new game for his ladies. He would gather them together in a large room and then extinguish all of the lights. Under the cover of darkness, the ladies were free from the bounds of propriety. _Do whatsoever you please without consequence,_ the Shah would say.

"Last time, Fatima's ruby brooch was stolen, and Zarintaj's dress was torn from hem to hem!" the little niece said. She lowered her voice, "and Nasreen was kissing one of the eunuchs! It was so funny!"

These were, in fact, rather tame examples from the Shah's 'Lights Out' game. As a diversion, it was incomprehensible to me. Eventually, the Shah's motives became clear to me. The harem was one of the most political places in the Persian court. And somehow— _somehow—_ the game of being _free in the dark_ actually did lower inhibitions, and laid bare many a loyalty and rivalry when the Shah randomly turned the lights back on.

Not that I had any concept of these machinations then. It seemed to me to be a silly waste of time, but I had plenty of time to waste. Only the most conservative grande dames begged off and I could not claim such distinction.

The Sultana migrated to her own little court of sycophants, leaving me to my more dignified companions. I felt foolishly at ease.

The Shah had all of his players attend upon him in the Building of the Wind Towers. I thought it odd, for this was outside of women's quarters. Erik later told me that it was the first building he had reworked the lighting in. The entire Palace was filled with gas lamps, and Erik had developed a way to control the lights in an entire room. It was this innovation that had served as the genesis for the Shah's game—relighting one lamp at a time would have defeated the purpose.

One wonders if the Shah had thought of the other advantage of the Building of the Wind Tower. The mirror work was exquisite. It twisted around pillars, edged brilliant enamel mosaics, climbed all across the ceiling. Any stray light would catch on the mirrors, or on the brilliant stained glass windows. These glimmers and chimeras were as mystifying as the pervading darkness.

It was no wonder that madness reigned in such a nightmarish dreamland.

I remember the Shah sitting at one end of the large, long room. He looked so benign, almost bored. He smiled vaguely at the women who chattered with him. Near at his hand was a switch—a peculiar switch, in the form of a bronze birdcage. Inside the cage, a bird carved of bone bobbed mechanically, its ruby eyes glinting. Once everyone had taken their positions—I stayed close to the wall, near my 'allies'— the Shah rested his hand on the birdcage. He turned it, and the room went black.

It started with a few giggles. And then a laugh—and then a screech—and a scream. I managed to stay next to my wall for some time, until I was pushed. I stumbled and fell onto the carpeted ground. Someone helped me up. Someone else pushed me again. Small hands took hold of my face and pulled me into a kiss.

There was more pushing, more screaming. Someone started crying.

"Mojgan? Is that you?" It sounded like one of the shy, younger wives. "Which way is _out?"_

I never had a change to answer her question. I was pulled back again and pushed to the floor. I could never quite reconstruct what happened next. I think my headscarf was pulled off, and then wrapped around my neck. I couldn't breathe.

The next thing I remember, I was staring up at a circle of concerned faces. The lights had been turned on at some point. I was not the only woman in disarray. Several were disrobed, or nearly so. Some had bloodied noses or hands. Anis al-Dawla, who had stayed away from the game itself, appeared in front of me.

"You're Mojgan Banu, yes?" she asked. Her voice was very mild, and she helped me to sit up. "Feridoon Ali Jah's wife?"

I didn't speak—it hurt terribly—but I nodded. I brushed my hand across my forehead to move my hair out of my eyes. My hand came back coated in red. I stared at it in fascination. I still remember how it gleamed in the gaslight.

"I'll have rooms prepared for you," she continued.

I found my what little was left of my voice and told her that I would return to my home. I had servants to escort me. There was some debate over this, but one of the other ladies was also preparing to leave and undertook to convey me away from the Palace.

It was only when Anis al-Dawla covered me in her own gold embroidered chador that I realized my clothing was ruined.

The Shah was still seated, watching the scene with his curious, dispassionate eyes. As I made to leave, he waved me over. I must have approached, though I do not remember how.

He pressed a shiny gold coin into my hand and gestured limply towards my dress. "Replace that with something pretty, hm?"

It is entirely possible that I laughed. I seem to have a memory of the Shah's eyebrows climbing up towards his hairline, but, mercifully, someone took me away before I did something foolish.

I don't remember the woman who took me out of the Building of the Wind Towers, but I know she was vexing me terribly. Oh, if only this day would end…

I'm not sure if I saw him first and called out or if he had seen me and approached, but I found myself speaking with Darius.

It was good that Darius eventually left Persia. He never could conceal his emotions. He look quite terrified as we spoke, eyes wide and lips white.

"I will fetch the Daroga," he said, "and he will convey you to safety."

Nadir must have been on the Palace grounds, for he came quickly. He looked me over, and ordered a palanquin called. "Feridoon is not at home?"

I replied that I did not expect to see him again until we moved back to Mazandaran.

"We will figure something out," he replied. I could also see a plan forming, brick by jade brick, in his eyes. "Until then, I'll send Darius to fetch your slave girls. You will stay in my house for a few days."

Perhaps I protested, perhaps not. I can't recall. He was my husband's kinsman, the closest relative I had in Tehran, and there was no arguing with him.

I passed a restless night in Nadir's home. My injuries were not severe, but I could not sleep for the pain. I arose at an early hour, and did not like to look in the mirror.

To steal another phrase from Byron's book—anachronistically, for I had never heard of the man back in Persia—" _He seems to have seen better days, as who has not who has seen yesterday?_ " My bruises were livid blue across one cheek and down onto my neck. Small cuts had turned to dreadful scabs. My eyes were blood shot. My hands were the most hated memento from the previous night. I could not stop them from shaking.

My maid, Khadija, did the best that they could and I arrived in Nadir's parlor looking more or less proper.

His smile, while kind, was somewhat perfunctory. I was forcibly reminded of our first meeting, when he had spoken to Feridoon about Erik. I knew that I was dealing with _the Daroga,_ not merely _cousin Nadir._ He asked fairly innocuous questions but ended up with the entire story. I belatedly wondered if Nadir should have been included in Feridoon's old admonition to keep silent and conceal how much I knew. It was too late, and I could only hope that Nadir would prove to be a real kinsman to me.

He did, thank God.

"You realize," he said at the end of our discussion, "that there is nothing that can be done. Unless His Majesty takes interest, but…"

"I never expected something to be _done,_ " I told him.

He smiled at me. "That is, perhaps, quite wise." He poured another glass of tea for me. "Your friend—Maryam?—is she still in town?"

I nodded.

"Why don't you invite her to your house for the next few days? And when the time comes, you will travel with my household to Mazandaran."

"I am not an invalid," I said.

He smiled again, a bit more patronizingly this time. "I am not especially concerned with your _current_ state of health, joonam."

It was the first time he had used any sort of endearment for me. I was inclined to laugh at him, to brush it off, but I was frankly thankful to have someone on my side. It almost did not matter if his concern or friendliness was sincere. I would have appreciated just the appearance of it. I agreed to his plans and was about to retire back to my guest room when a commotion entered Nadir's house.

"Daroga! Did you hear what happened to the little accountant's little wife?—"

Erik came to a dead stopped at the room's doorway. His mask usually rendered him unreadable, but everything else in his posture suggested shock.

"Indeed," Nadir replied neutrally, "I have heard."

Erik crossed the room with sudden speed. He came to another abrupt stop directly in front of me. It was the first time I had actually been able to see his eyes. I have heard many a description given of them—uncanny, glittering gold, bizarre, yellow, ghost-color, what have you. They were brown. A very light, golden brown, and given to catching the light at odd moments, but brown nonetheless. And at that moment, they were frighteningly hard. He reached out, grasped my chin, and turned my head to look at the substantial bruise that had formed.

His fingers were cold, far too cold. I stayed very still.

"May I suggest that pianos are better companions than sultanas?" he said, his voice as cold as his hands.

I gave in to my first impulse. I laughed, just as I had laughed at the Shah.

Here is one last piece of not-really-wisdom for you, Shadi. When you grow old and look back on your life, you will realize that there are many turning points. They are sudden and usually only identifiable in retrospect, yet they are almost always the crucibles of our lives, the moments that melt us and remake us.

That moment in Nadir's parlor, with Erik's ice cold fingers on my face, was just such a point. I laughed, and in laughing turned my life in a new direction. I looked back at Erik and saw that his eyes had softened, and with that softening my fate was reformed.

I wonder if Nadir realized what was happening. I doubt Erik did. I certainly did not.

Until next time, joonam.

_Mojgan Banu Khanum_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth really is stranger than fiction. 'Lights Out' was a game Naser al-Din devised after the installation of electric lights in his palaces. The results were always bizarre and frequently brutal. I figured that Erik might be able to provide a little illumination a few decades in advance.


	20. A Triumvirate

Even Erik's horse disliked the Shah. The beast would rather edge closer to the sheer drop in front of it than stay curbed near Naser al-Din. Erik reached down and gave the horse a pat.

"Hrmm," the Shah was observing Erik's seaside palace with a critical eye. It was the first time he had taken more than a cursory glance at the construction site, or an interest beyond tile work or archways or rose bushes. "Ahem." Erik had taken him on a closer tour of the grounds, but for a project of this scale it was often better to see it from a distance. They had gone up to Erik's preferred prospect, trailing retainers and servants all the way up the hill side. "Hm."

Erik's grip on his reins tightened. If he made one more— _one more_ —of those ambiguous _sounds_ — Well, it wouldn't matter if Naser al-Din was the Shah of Persia or the King of Heaven or a Russian peasant. Erik would kill him. He knew it as surely as he knew he had his catgut in his coat pocket. The Shah was dancing on his last nerve, and making a mess of the steps.

"Well, Erik," the Shah finally said. "Well, Erik. It seems to be very fine."

"Yes," Erik replied. After a moment, he proceeded to the next part of his script. "Thank you, your Majesty."

The Shah's mustache twitched in amusement. "Indeed, it is hard to believe the project was started—what? A mere nine months ago? Impressive."

"Thank you, your Majesty."

"And my treasury officer tells me that you are—ah—making the best of your resources."

Did that 'ah' count as one more sound? Could he just strangle the man and be done with it? Erik tried to take a breath, but his new mask—a slightly daunting black and gold piece from the Sultana—made such necessary business rather difficult. "Yes, your Majesty."

There was another flash of amusement from the Shah, this time in the form of a wheezy chuckle. "Well, that's enough of this for a day, hm? Ride with me, won't you?"

Erik complied and kept pace with the Shah. He chattered about inanities for a time. He chattered about the French in French and the Russians in Russian (Erik had not thought something worse than the Shah's French had been possible. He had been wrong.) He spoke at length on his new premier, Muhammad Khan Qajar, and the freedom his new triumvirate government would afford him. Serious subjects, Erik would have thought, but the actual content of the Shah's speech was as gossamery as his dancing girls' apparel.

"Do you hunt, Erik _agha_?"

Erik considered his reply carefully. "For what?"

"What does man usually hunt?"

 _Man,_ Erik thought. "Beasts, I believe." _Is there a difference?_

The Shah turned in his saddle. He pointed to a peak that cut a stark white jag against the cobalt sky. "The old myths say that Zahhak dwelt up there on Mount Damavand—depending on the myth, he is either a dragon or a dragon of a man. Regardless, he possesses all the sins in the world. Heroes hunt dragons. However, I intend to hunt leopard and bears there instead."

"It better befits a king, I suppose," Erik said.

The Shah smiled and turned away from the mountains. "And what does a magician hunt, hm?" When Erik remained silent, the Shah answered his own question. "A magician hunts snakes, I think."

"Perhaps."

"I fear there will be many snakes about now," the Shah sighed. "Poor Nuri, dead just a handful of months, and already snakes are slithering about on his good name. I think you will need to be _most_ wary, even in Mazandaran." He gave that sidelong stare that Erik had become so familiar with.

"It helps to know who to be wary of," Erik said.

For the next half hour, the Shah prattled on. He never gave Erik _names_ , but positions and circumstances so specific so as to be unmistakable. He never said what he expected Erik to do, never gave direction. _I think you will figure something out, yes?_

Oh, yes. If there was one thing Erik had developed a talent for, it was _figuring things out._

He had recently come into possession of a newspaper—an imported newspaper, called _Le Epoque._ He had thumbed through it out of curiosity, trying to see if this relic of his past struck him as foreign or familiar. As it turned out, the answer was _both_. The language had fairly leapt off of the page and nestled intimately against his heart. But the content of that language was as strange as Persian skies or Russian fairgrounds or any other far-flung horizon. _The Police Commissioner,_ one article referenced. _A banker. The actress. Grocers. The managers of the Opera Populaire. Navy captain. The editor of this journal._ Erik imaged that such people existed in their regional variations the world over. Nadir was a sort of police commissioner, wasn't he? And merchants supplied the palace with everything from silks to green groceries, did they not? And yet all the professions seemed so very far away from Erik's world so as to render them unintelligible. Where would he fit in a newspaper article?

He was forcibly reminded of those aimless thoughts now.

The Shah was signing death sentences. Erik would surely carry them out. What did that make him? An executioner? He did not like the sound of that. A butcher, who took orders for this part of lamb and that part of a bull? A bit of both, like a Roman carnifex? _This past Monday, the Shah ordered his carnifex, Erik, to carry out the order against so-and-so..._ If not that, then what? Aedifex, artifex? (He had to stop there, for his Latin was shaky and he could only come up with 'panifex' to add to his list of possible professions, which was patently absurd.)

He eventually parted ways with the Shah. Naser al-Din was eager to prepare for his hunting trip. Erik was eager for him to depart.

He was not the only one.

"His Majesty is leaving tomorrow at sunrise," the Sultana said. "No one knows when he'll be back!"

"Though chances are," Erik said, "he _will_ be back."

She laughed and praised Erik as though he was some sort of pet who had done a clever trick. Erik did not particularly mind. The Sultana had been in better spirits since her return to Mazandaran. Tehran was not the right setting for her, Erik figured. There were too many competing powers in the capital city, too many things to disrupt her amusements. In Tehran, the harem was hemmed in ways that never really occurred in Mazandaran.

Erik also suspected that she loathed the prominence of politics—probably as much as he did, if not more so.

She took some time to resettle amongst her layers of striped silks after her laughing fit. "Well, we'll see if he comes back the _same_ man. Or if his new government just saps his manhood right away."

Erik looked up from the santur he was restringing. "My lady's too pretty for politics," he said in his sweetest tones.

She giggled, her dark eyes narrowing. "You don't know that! You really can't!' She leaned closer. "Should I take off my veil, _jagariman?_ "

Erik looked back down at the instrument, his mouth dry. "That is for you to decide, Sultana."

"Yes, it is," she said. Her posture hunch a little and she leaned back again. "You know, the farm girl's been around again."

"Mojgan?" He was somewhat surprised to hear she had been to harem recently. Nadir had tried to keep her on a tight rein until her husband returned, and Erik couldn't quite blame him.

"Yes, _Mojgan,_ " the Sultana said. "The woman drives me to distraction. It's _taarof, taarof, taarof_. I just want to scream."

"She is rather kind." He spoke too quickly, and realized almost immediately how ill-considered his words were. "But it is hard to tell with Persians."

The Sultana stared at him blackly. " _I_ can tell." Tiny hands rearranged her robes with short, furious movements. "You like her."

"I like you more," Erik replied earnestly. "Why even mention her?"

This seemed to refocus her and she resumed her story. "Some of the girls like her reading—now that she can read aloud again—and she's been going through one of the Shah's history books, the one with all of the French kings and queens and what-nots."

The Sultana paused and Erik made an encouraging sound. "She read all about _fealty_ ," the Sultana said, "and the oaths good knights would make to their ladies. You know about this?"

"I'm familiar with the idea," Erik said, "it is no longer common." Erik has the impression that it was an altogether extinct custom, but he did not mention that.

"Well, then, what of that?" The Sultana sat up very straight. "I want your homage, _Jadugar Agha."_

"You have it," Erik replied.

She sighed, exasperated. "No, Erik. I want you to give me an oath." After a moment, she asked, "do I not deserve it?"

Erik blinked slowly. This was a curious sport for the Sultana. But, if he were honest, she seemed to be entirely constructed of whims and whimsy and silk. "If not you, then who?"

She shifted from side to side, her eyes almost shut for smiling. "On your knees, Erik."

With great deliberation, Erik set aside the santur and stood. He approached the Sultana and stood for a moment, considering her.

 _Kneel, you fool,_ his mind whispered. _Is she not your heart? Did not her laughter save you, when you might have thrown away your life? If so, do you not owe her your life?_

Yet his joints rebelled, even as they had refused to cooperate that first day before Naser al-Din. _Abasement, debasement, mortification, humiliation._ "I am my lady's dog," he said. His voice sounded strange in his own ears, and he found that he could get down on a knee. "Erik is his lady's dog."

"And Erik will serve his lady," she said.

"Of course. What shall Erik do for you?" He looked up at her, lost himself in her dark eyes. "Shall the roses sing for you? Shall the stars fall?"

"Hm," she tapped her fingers together. "Yes. Yes, I think so. One star at least."

Erik came to his feet and bowed theatrically. "My lady's wish—"

"Back down, Erik," she said primly, "I haven't named the star yet."

It was easier to kneel before her the second time. "Pardon?"

"The star. The star I want felled," she said, "but I think you know."

Erik knew that he had an elaborate firework setup he had been looking forward to displaying, but he suspect that was not what she was driving at. "Sultana…"

"Feridoon," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "No one will miss him—not anymore, at least—not since the Shah gave al-Mamalik power over the whole treasury. And you hate him—I know you hate him. You hate him as much as I hate—" She cut off suddenly. "But I am your liege lady, am I not? I don't need to explain myself."

"Yes," Erik said, very carefully. "But even you do not have the power of life and death."

"No," she said, "but my sorcerer does. Does he not?"

"Your sorcerer…" Erik paused for a moment, willing his hands to stop their mad clenching, "your sorcerer would take a life to guard your life. Your sorcerer would lay down his own life for you."

"But my dog will not _bite_ for me," she said coldly. "Your fealty leaves something to be desired, Erik."

Erik felt like a vise had been put around his heart. "Erik is—"

"It does not matter, does it?"

"—sorry," he finished. He recovered something of his wit. "I've never had liege lady before, after all."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, but after a moment she softened. "And I am glad for it! Here, now. Let me look on my dog, then. I will see if your contrition is true, and decide your fate accordingly. Don't shy away from me, Erik."

Erik winced as she untied his mask. He tried to remain still, but his eyes darted wildly, settling on everything besides her face.

After a moment, she patted his head. "You _are_ an ugly mongrel, Erik. But you're _my_ ugly mongrel." She handed his mask back to him. "Now, you have the dulcimer tuned? Play me something. I want to cry."

Erik had played until the Sultana cried. What strange tears they were, noiseless but they made her kohl run and stain her veil. She eventually fell asleep. Erik had departed when her slaves took her away to her bedchamber.

His head was filled with music, quarter tones and strange vibratos that part of him wanted to call _wrong, wrong, wrong_ but nevertheless drowned out the mayhem of his thoughts. He wanted to throw the santur at the garden wall, it the vague mad hope that it would explode into more music—more sound—pure symphony or pure cacophony, he did not care. Just something, anything to change him from _Erik_ into something—anything— better _._

He almost did not notice to legion of eunuch guards he was walking past. Even in noticing, he did not pay them any heed, until a voice spoke from the center of the crowd.

"You are Erik."

Hearing _that name_ brought Erik to a cold stop. _No, no. There are no Eriks here. All the Eriks in the world are dead and gone— gone far, far away. Erik has run away to the gypsies, you know._ He turned, and could have shrieked with laughter. Was it possible? A full year he had been in Persia—more than a year, nearer to two—and for the first time, he was face to face with Malek Jahan Khanum.

He had seen her from afar, on rare occasion. She rarely left the inner harem—he had never seen her in this outer courtyard. She was a large woman, and her robes made her seem squatter than she was. There was something of her in Naser al-Din's face: a slight droop to the eyes, a heaviness in the jowls—features that disguised any strength of character and could easily lead a fool to underestimate the person behind the face.

Erik managed a slight bow. "Mahdeh Olia," he greeted. After a moment, he added, "Khanum."

She did a peculiar trick with her eyebrows, lifting them in the middle and drawing them down at the sides. It created a caricature of concern. "I had hoped to speak with you."

 _No, no, no. There is no one here to speak with. You'll have better luck speaking with the pillars._ "Yes?"

She stared at him, as if she could calculate his worth. _You can't. You can't possibly know what Erik is worth. Or what he is not worth, for that matter._ "His Imperial Majesty— _my dear son_ —is leaving tomorrow. Did you know?"

"I did."

"He will not return for some time," she continued.

"Indeed?"

"Now he has—" she stumbled over her next words, as though they left a bad taste in her mouth—"handed over his executive authority, he has more time to devote to his… subjects."

Leisure. The word she had wanted was _leisure._ Erik did not correct her.

"I have vowed to keep some small account of Mazandaran in his absence for him," she continued. "He said that he left you with some orders, but neglected to specify what they were."

Erik blinked at her.

"Well?" She prompted.

"Well what?"

"What has my son charged you to do?"

Erik tilted his head and continued to stare at her. Her countenance had not altered. She still looked a little concerned, a little worried—rather like a put upon housewife. Erik wanted to laugh. "How can that possibly concern you?"

Nadir's voice floated into Erik's ear. _Malek Jahan Khanum is a consummate politician—and you are nothing to her agenda._

Apparently, something had changed, though Erik could not guess what.

"My concern," she said, voice desperately earnest, "is the concern of a mother for her child. You can understand that, can you not?"

"No," Erik replied slowly, "I cannot."

They stood at an impasse. Erik became acutely aware of her retinue of guards. They were numerous and lethal-looking.

"You have nothing to gain from reticence."

"Nor have I anything to lose," Erik said.

"Your loyalty does you credit." The Shah could have learned something from his mother, Erik thought. But as for what that 'something' was… well, Erik could not quite put a finger on it.

" _My_ loyalty is not an issue."

Her mask was starting to slip, starting to fracture. "You speak very quickly, _magician._ " No. Her mask was not _slipping._ She was lowering it. But was she revealing the truth or another mask?

"A trait we have in common," Erik said.

"The only one, I think," she replied. "So, it is true, then. Your loyalties lie elsewhere." She jerked her head in the direction of the inner harem. "I had hoped it was not so. It is a sad thing to see a man led about by a girl."

"Are you trying to provoke me?" Erik asked lightly.

"No, I am trying to offer you a valuable friendship," she said, "but I think you are refusing it."

"I find myself without the need for friends," Erik replied. "But I also find myself without the need for enemies."

"That is not how it works," she said. "But you know that. Foolish boy. How far do you think you will get, as the favorite of a _passing fancy?_ "

"How far will I get, as the pawn of on old woman living past her powers?" Erik should have known better—but _Erik_ was there enough to control the tongue in his very mouth.

They stood, several paces apart, and stared at one another. Madeh Olia smoothed her chador, beckoned her guards with a finger, and departed back to the inner courtyards.

Erik remained in place until they had all passed from his sight.

_Well, Erik. Well, Erik, you idiot dog Erik. What happens next?_

He threw down the santur in place of a gauntlet, and left the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to figure out how Erik fits in to this world—and trying to maintain some sense of historical context—has been a trick. I debated quite a bit on bringing the Shah's mother into play, considering the typical representations of her character. But this time frame was sort of her last hurrah in politics, so, you know, history won out. I'm also finding the Sultana increasingly disturbing. That, alas, is necessary to the plot—how else will we end up with a mirrored torture chamber?


	21. The Star

Nadir was dreaming. It was an unusual occurrence for him. For twenty years, responsibility had weighed down on him and crushed whatever fantasy sleep might have concocted. Perhaps he should be thankful, he mused, well aware as he was that he slumbered. He had been spared twenty years of nightmares, as well as pleasanter dreams.

This was not a nightmare, at least. He dreamed that a sudden gust of wind had blown him over the mountains and out of Mazandaran. He had been carried, as gently as a babe in arms, over the whole of the empire until he reached the land of his birth. He glided over sand-colored cities, punctuated by their blue-roofed mosques. He circled closer to the ancient cypress trees, taking in the feel of their scaly foliage and their bright, sharp smell with his ghostly senses. Onward, deep into the desert he went, over the Zoroastrians' old, crumbling Tower of Silence. He found the dunes, and his real heart soared with his dream body. He marveled at their greatness. The Alborz Mountains made a man feel small, and the Caspian awed with its power— but the sands were as eternal as they were changeable. Storms may have catapulted the grains to heaven, and old nomadic chiefs may have dotted the land with their tents, but it never amounted to anything at all. A man could lose himself in such vast nothingness, as surely as he could be lost in the forest mass of trees or the city crush of construction.

He reveled in the beauty of his dreamscape. He felt warm and peaceful, even as a cold and fearful wakefulness took hold of him.

"Daroga agha," it was Darius's voice speaking and Darius's hands shaking him, "Daroga agha khan. Daroga - agha - khan."

Oh, this was undoubtedly bad, if Darius could not decide _which_ honorific to use. Nadir opened his eyes. Only the weakest hint of diffused light had found its way into his bedchamber. He turned and looked out of his window. Predawn— the fifth hour, perhaps, but no more than that.

"What is it?"

"Salman _agha_ sent one of his deputies to fetch you," Darius pressed a glass of tea into Nadir's hand as soon as he was upright. "The morning watch found a body just outside of the city gates. The agha wants you to see it."

Nadir nodded and gulped down his tea. Salman had spent most of his life in the military and was called _agha_ by virtue of his accomplishments, not his birth. He was not a frivolous man and did not rouse his superiors from their beds without good reason. "What else did the deputy say?"

Darius pulled out one of Nadir's best work coats. "Very little. He thought the victim might be noble, but I do not believe he personally saw the body."

"Very well. We shall be obliged to find out for ourselves." Nadir strapped on his sword and they departed.

His worst fear was to find the _strangled_ body of some personal rival of the Shah's. Policy dictated a blind eye be turned in _that_ direction, but it always served to put Nadir off his supper.

Near the city gates, though… that did not sound like Erik. Unless he was following some specific direction? Well, that did not sound like Erik either.

By the time they arrived at the gates of the city center, dawn had begun to assert itself in earnest. Salman stood with his back to the rising sun, casting black shadows over his eyes and catching pink light in his silver beard.

"Daroga," he said, "I've called for an undertaker from the mosque already, but I thought you would wish to examine him yourself."

The coldness that had plagued Nadir since Darius woke him transformed steadily in icy dread.

A corpse, he reminded himself, a corpse like a thousand other corpses he had seen. A corpse, sprawled on its belly, bloody wounds decorating its back, its face half-pressed into the ground. Nadir leaned down to get a better look.

Some corpses looked ancient beyond their mortal years, as if the instant of death had opened their bodies as well as their souls to infinity. Others looked young, the loss of life amounting to nothing more than a loss of a burden.

Feridoon looked very young.

Nadir felt very old.

Perhaps he should have accompanied the undertaker back to the mosque. He was Feridoon's closest male relative, if not by blood than certainly by geography. And affection? Perhaps. He should have taken the responsibility to wash the body and have it properly shrouded, but—

They had attendants at the mosque to see to such necessities, while he had other duties to the dead that could not be handed off so easily.

* * *

He waited, standing in the middle of the room, for a servant to fetch Mojgan out of her chambers. She came out quickly, smiling and trailing in the scents of jasmine and cardamom.

"Nadir _agha_ ," she said, wagging a finger at him, "I thought I told you—yesterday!—that I do not need you—" she stopped suddenly and looked at Nadir. "Oh. You're not here to check up on me. Are you?"

* * *

_Why wouldn't she cry?_

Darius had followed Nadir into Mojgan Banu's parlor. He stood near the back wall, ready to be of any service. Darius had attended upon many a grieving family, and he thought he knew exactly what to expect.

As soon as the Daroga announced that the master of the house was dead—something Darius was very sorry for, for he remembered that Feridoon Ali Jah had been kind to him on more than one occasion—there would be mayhem. There would be wailing and weeping and _howling_ , grief enough to rouse Heaven.

And so there was. News traveled fast in the house, and not a single one of Feridoon's retainers or slaves remained silent.

But his lady? His wife, who should have been the chief mourner?

She sat on her divan, silent and stoic. The Daroga sat across from her, looking almost as confused as Darius felt. For a moment, her still hands left her lap. She ran them over her face once, twice.

Now, surely— but no. She took a deep breath and let her hands fall back down.

"What shall be done now?" she asked.

Had she never lost someone? Had she lived some charmed life, free of funerals?

Three days of deep mourning, Darius silently told her. Three days, when half of Mazandaran would wail for Feridoon Ali Jah because they had loved him; three days when the other half of Mazandaran would wail so no one would know of their indifference or their malice. Three days to grieve and pray and give voice to heartache; to consort with those who understood your pain, to console one another with tea and halvah and expressions of anguish.

But perhaps that was not what she was asking—indeed, that was not the answer the Daroga gave her. "You cannot return to your father's house yet. I will offer you what protection I can. I wish I could be certain that my aegis will be sufficient—but this—" the Daroga stopped suddenly, swallowed, and seemed closer to tears than Mojgan—"this was… quite brazen."

Mojgan nodded slowly. "I think I know better than to ask who—but I cannot help ask _why?"_

"I will answer what questions I can, when I can," the Daroga said. "In the meantime—"

"I know what happens in the meantime." Her voice was unexpectedly steely, and it startled Darius out of his confusion.

He thought on it for a moment. He did not think of the bereaved women he had encountered in day to day life— _real_ life, as it was sometimes called— but of the heroines in his beloved epics.

Farangis may have mourned her dead husband for a year—but was Manijeh disabled by grief when her beloved was condemned? No, she was moved to action. Did Gordafarid, with her long hair hidden beneath a Roman helmet, weep for her slain father? No. She raged forward with battle cries, not tears. And in her rage she defeated Sohrab, and moved him to proclaim ' _If all the daughters of Iran are like to thee, and go forth unto battle, none can stand against this land…'_

Perhaps _great_ ladies had no need for great demonstrations of grief. He looked at Mojgan again, with her eyelashes like raven's wings and eyes like dark old steel. The indifferent glaze was gone from those eyes, he noticed, and her face was no longer effigy-like in its composure. Her grief may have been silent, but it was no longer dormant. It was unnervingly tangible.

She still would not cry, he hazarded, at least not now. He supposed it really did not matter. He could cry for both of them.


	22. The Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters for the price of one today, as I have a little extra time and the last one was short.

The first thing Erik noticed about Feridoon's funeral was the absolute commotion. Most of the noise seemed to come from the women's pavilion, but the men in the main part of the mosque were playing their part with substantial gusto.

The second thing he noticed was the profusion of cousins. Some of them claimed kinship with the specificity typical in Persian families— _my mother's brother's wife's brother's son's wife's father's brother's son_ , or perhaps _my sister's husband's aunt's husband's nephew._ But many present gave up after the sixth or seventh step. It was the _missing_ steps that Erik noticed the most. For all of Feridoon's distant cousins, there seemed to be a distinct lack of aunts and uncles or siblings. Beyond Mojgan herself, Nadir's seemed to the most concise relationship.

"Our mothers were cousins," he said. It was practically the only thing Nadir said to Erik that day. He disappeared soon after, weaving a path through the people that would have made any maze-maker proud. Erik recognized evasion when he saw it—Nadir _purposefully_ maintained his distance for the rest of the funeral.

Erik almost left halfway through the funeral. The Quranic Arabic used was mostly inscrutable, apart from a few rote phrases that one found in everyday life. Erik picked out the takbir— _allahu akbar_ —but could only follow the mullah's prayers in the most rudimentary fashion.

Why he felt he needed to be present at all was a mystery, even in his own mind. _That man_ had been nothing but a nuisance to Erik. Not an especially fatal nuisance, but still a rather irksome one. He had dealt with Feridoon too regularly to dismiss him outright. Between the palace construction project, Nadir, and the Sultana's morbid interests in Mojgan… well, Erik simply couldn't escape the man. That simple, ugly, maddeningly quiet man who possessed everything in the world that mattered—everything that Erik did not have.

Oh, how Erik wanted to hate him. He had wanted him to be the enemy, to be a sinister character deserving of destruction. But Erik could never find it within himself to move beyond irritation—and jealousy. Even now, the only other feeling Erik could conjure up for Feridoon was something like… loss. He could not say he was _saddened_ by Feridoon's death, per se. But he had the notion that, out of the myriads of maleficent mankind, Feridoon probably did not deserve _this_ death. From what he heard it was a gruesome one, very typical of the political-cum-personal assassinations of the Court.

No, Feridoon didn't deserve that, and so Erik stayed through the funeral. He stayed for the burial and eventually found himself at the ugly little house with its chipped fountain and homely walled garden.

It seemed like a sea of people had invaded, coming in relentless waves. Neighbors brought enough food for the entire province, and people grieved with gluttony. Erik strayed late into the night and returned early the next morning. He moved through the house soundlessly, staying in the shadows and watching. Another day passed, and then another.

Why didn't Mojgan just kick them out? Did she not crave solitude? Peace? Or perhaps she was simply trying to drown out the demons in her mind with a din?

It was impossible to gauge her state of mind. She moved through the house as unobtrusively as Erik did, one of a dozen-odd black-veiled women. Occasionally he would catch some glimpse of profile through the fabric, some slight posture that suggested 'Mojgan' beneath 'mourning.' Not that he had a chance to speak with her—she stayed away from the men. Personal preference or another Persian custom that was enforced or ignored per convenience?

At last, the house began to empty. When the last of the visitors trickling out, Erik finally emerged. Nadir had taken up a semi-permanent position in the main room, standing in for closer family. Erik found him there, glass-eyed and seemingly stagnant.

Erik sat across from him. The role of 'comforter' was a little beyond his capabilities, Erik figured, but he knew that 'presence' was often thought of as a comfort in of itself.

It took some time for Nadir to notice him. When he did, the Daroga gave one of his old, disapproving sniffs. "You're still here, are you?"

Erik bit back a snide comment and simply nodded.

"Why bother?"

Erik shifted in his seat. "I thought it was the right thing to do."

Nadir laughed in an odd, humorless puff. "And if you had thought it the wrong thing to do, would that have stopped you?"

Erik tilted his head. " _Was_ it the wrong thing?"

"Well. Well, you were quick enough to cause this trouble," Nadir spat, "I suppose the least you can do is see it through."

Erik supposed that he felt sorry for Nadir. He certainly seemed to be grieving. But did grief give a person license to be bad-tempered? The funeral suggested the answer was 'yes.' Erik did not quite believe it. "I think you've been drinking, you crazy old man. What are you talking about?"

"I believe you know," Nadir sniffed again.

There was a long stretch of silence as Erik ran through a profusion of possibilities. One in particular taunted him and refused to be discounted. Well, now. This certainly brought the last three days into perspective.

"You think I killed him." He had intended for the words to be a question, but they were not. They did not need to be.

Nadir did not reply as such. His lips were drawn out in a thin, long line. His eyes were... well, Erik knew that look. His eyes were murderous.

 _Do you think I am scared of you, Daroga? Do you think yours is the worst rage I have faced?_ A small part of Erik's mind answered a traitorous _yes._ It was one thing to face the wrath of some stranger, some mob, some nameless nobody. It was different when it was someone one had believed to be—

Erik flung himself out of his chair and took to prowling to room.

"How," Erik ground out, "can you think that? _How_ can you believe _that_? Why do you think... _I_... would do such a thing?"

"Would you not?" Nadir stood, matched Erik pace for pace and punctuated his every point with a jab of his finger on Erik's chest. "Would you not? You are an assassin. A manslayer. A monster, a demon!"

Each word was a blade, as familiar as it was unexpected. Erik stumbled back the first time, until hurt transformed into fury and fury rendered him unmovable.

"Then why are you not scared of the monster?" Erik asked. His voice was high and shrill. He tried to force it down low again, but it seemed beyond his control. "If Erik is a demon, why do you bait the demon?" He caught the Daroga's wrist in his bruising grip. "The monster has been in your house. The monster has dined at your table. You made friends with the monster. If your friend is a monster, the killer of your family, what does that make you?"

"You are no friend of mine, Erik. You never have been. You were my curse—my shackle—just another plaything of the Shah that I was commanded to oversee. You—"

" _Enough._ "

Both Erik and Nadir froze when Mojgan entered the room. Her black chador fluttered around her like so many raven feathers. She came up close to them and in her eyes Erik saw a real living death. Erik knew her to be his junior by a handful of years—she was, perhaps, eighteen. It hardly signified. She had all the gravitas of a matron three times her age. She looked first at Nadir, her expression deceptively mild.

"Cousin," she said, "do not insult my guest." She turned to Erik. "Erik _agha_ , unhand my kinsman."

Erik glanced down at the hand—his hand— clasped around Nadir's wrist. He pulled away as though he had been burned.

She made them sit. Nadir, Erik noticed, looked completely spent. God alone knew what Erik looked like. He felt cold.

She snapped her fingers and tea appeared. It was a good trick, Erik thought, even if it was pulled off by the quick action of servants. It was still a good trick to make something appear by will alone. Erik held onto glass, willing some meager warmth to migrate from the glass into his hands. She came close to him for a moment and forced Erik to meet her eyes.

"Drink the tea," she commanded.

Erik complied. On the first sip, the tea sloshed across his covered upper lip and seeped under his mask. It burned briefly and then chilled him further.

"Now," she said. "Nadir—Cousin—will you please tell me what that… that _scene_ was about?"

Nadir stayed silent, drinking his tea like it was the water of life.

Erik's focus had settled on Mojgan's hands. They were decorated with half-faded henna—a cheery relic from the days when she awaited her husband's imminent return? Erik found his voice before Nadir did.

"The good Daroga believes me to be the… assassin… of your husband."

"Hm," was her only reply. She looked between the two men for a minute, sipping her tea. She turned back to Erik. "Are you?"

The question startled Erik. He could only shake his head.

"You did not, in fact, take a blade and approach my husband from behind. You did not stab him, repeatedly, piercing through skin and muscle clear to the other side of his body—"

Nadir startled at her words. "How do you?—"

She held up a hand and continued to address Erik. "A feat, I might add, that would take either tremendous strength or tremendous fury. You did not drag him to the city gates and press his face into the ground, so that his last breath in this world would be smothered by dirt? You did not leave his eyes open and unseeing, his clothing blood-soaked and stinking? You did not leave me a widow and without a protector? Did you? _Did you?_ "

Erik stared at her, at her impassive serenity. "No. No, I did not."

"Well, then," she shrugged and turned to Nadir. "He says he did not do it."

"He is a killer," Nadir insisted, voice raw and brittle.

"I know," she said. That admission was as piercing as any of Nadir's earlier insults. "Does he kill like _this_?"

Nadir finally turned back to Erik. He rubbed his neck thoughtfully. "No."

Mojgan lifted her eyebrows. "Then we are done. This is already a house of mourning. I will not have it transformed into a house of discord, as well."

Erik had not thought Nadir could look smaller or more worn. He was proved wrong when Nadir's shoulders slumped. "Erik, I—"

"I believe I _do_ understand you well enough, Daroga," Erik said. "One wonders why it took you so long to say."

"Erik—" the Daroga stopped, rubbed his eyes, and stayed silent.

"We are none of us ourselves today," Mojgan offered mildly.

Erik snorted. "Is that so?"

"It is." More tea was served, more snacks. They all made a show of partaking.

"Mojgan-joon," Nadir said, "how did you _know_ all that… I mean to say, how did you find out everything—"

Mojgan waved the question away. "For shame, Nadir." She bared her teeth in something that might have been mistaken for a smile. "Did you think Feridoon married me for my beauty? I'd like to think it was for my naïveté. I've been told it is my most appealing trait."


	23. The Future

Dear Shadi,

Before I arose this morning, I turned and looked out my bedroom windows. It was not the view (which is rather dreary at the moment) that drew my eye. A draft had caught my curtains. They are lovely old Brussels lace. This past summer, my housekeeper soaked them in soured milk and then rinsed them in rainwater and left them out on the lawn to dry during the heat of the day. It struck me as a needlessly complicated process, but one cannot argue with results. I had not realized that the lace had yellowed so terribly—my eye had been as jaundiced with age as my curtains.

They are now brilliantly white.

The curtains in my house in Mazandaran were soft cream silk, shot with gold thread and edged in meticulous paisley embroidery. I remember looking at them the morning after Feridoon died—much as I looked at my lace drapery this morning.

That image of glittery silk, catching the early summer sun, is one of the few things I recall from that time with any real clarity.

The days after Feridoon's death mostly escape me. There are things I know by instinct, because I am Persian and I know what our funerals are like. I know what prayers were offered, though I do not remember hearing them. I know what food the neighbors must have provided, though I do not recall tasting a single thing. My actual memories consist of snippets and impressions and half-formed images. I do not remember learning of his death—I have a hazy picture of Nadir's distressed face and of his hand clutching the hilt of his sword, nothing more. I do not remember who told me _how_ my husband died, although I can recall the particulars as if I had been personally present for the murder.

What I do remember is noise, more noise than you can possibly imagine.

I do not think you have ever encountered anything to match it. Remember when we heard Mussorgsky's _Witches' Sabbath_ performed? The trombones and tuba and bassoons thundered fast and fierce. Our ears rang for days afterwards. Now replace brass and woodwinds with wails and tears—but no. Perhaps it is more like a train station. One suffers the incessant babbling of passengers, the shouts of the staff, the perpetual sense of being crowded. Add to that the deafening scream of a steam engine grinding to a halt… No, even that does not quite fit. Perhaps, if the keening of the train lasted for days upon days without letup, as constant as the ocean tides…

But now I am mixing my metaphors, am I not? Poor Shadi, how do you manage?

It suffices to say that the noise at a Persian funeral is a nightmare incarnate. One is surrounded on all sides by the soul-crushing, heart-rending wails of grief. It is enough to suffocate a person. It is enough to drown in.

I did not drown. I felt like some sort of stone, jutting out of a rushing river, surrounded and pummeled but ultimately unmoved. I simply could not mourn Feridoon in such a fashion. I kept my sorrow carefully bound up in my heart, quiet and discreet. I was fond of the man, and I mourned him in my way—but I mourned the future more. And while one might wail for a man, I just could not bring myself to do so for unborn children, uninhabited houses, and unrealized potential.

I think there was another reason why I could not lose myself in a current of grief. Those mourned-for possible futures gave way to a profoundly uncertain reality. I was well-provided for financially, which was an enviable situation for a woman in those days. But as to where I would go and what I should do, I could not even begin to guess. Each day seemed to bring ten new questions and no answers.

At first, it had seemed simple. I sent notice of Feridoon's death to my family, fully expecting my father to travel to Mazandaran for the funeral and then take me back to Ghazvin. The reply I received instead informed me that my father was extremely ill. He did not live through the forty days of mourning I was obliged to spend near my husband's grave. With this one obvious option taken from me, it seemed as though I could do anything—and yet nothing. I now had a deficit of male _mahreem_ —unmarriageable relatives who could in good conscience serve as my protectors and escorts. I had two brothers-in-law back home who would be taking possession of our estate and the care of my other sisters. But after being mistress of my own house, I did not relish the thought of becoming a permanent guest in someone else's.

Beyond these practical matters, there were other factors at play that I did not properly understand. Politics were an ever-present nuisance. As the widow of a highborn and high stationed man, I could not escape courtly machinations. Four and half months from Feridoon's death, I would be eligible to marry again. Apparently I (or at least the independent fortune I now possessed) had been deemed a rather desirable matrimonial prize.

This is when Nadir entered into my life in a large way.

He was not actually _mahram_ to me, but he ignored that as technicality. He took to calling me 'little sister' and made it clear to all that I was under his protection. I stayed at Feridoon's house with the old staff and Khadija, but Nadir was a consistent presence. I know he felt a very real, if somewhat self-imposed, sense of familial responsibility towards me. But more than that, I believe he was glad for the company. Not that he would have ever admitted to such a thing.

And then there was Erik.

Poor Erik.

Some intrinsic shift occurred in the relationship between Nadir and Erik after Feridoon's death. He could never quite shake the idea that Erik had contributed, in some fashion, to the tragedy. And what Nadir could not shake he could not forgive. 'Erik' irrevocably became 'that monster Erik.' They maintained a relationship, but in a twisted, strange incarnation. They seesawed continually between almost familial affection and outright animosity. Though, ultimately, this inconsistency became its own constant: they remained in this state for the next twenty years.

As for me, I had developed some small liking for Erik over the previous months. I couldn't call it affection. Sympathy, perhaps?

I knew who he was and what he did for the Shah. The whole of Persia must have known by then. Whether it was Feridoon's colleagues speaking in riddles or the harem girls relaying some story of the Sultana's or Darius chatting up my prettiest kitchen maid or Nadir grimacing meaningfully—I could not help but know what Erik did.

Perhaps he really did kill Feridoon. Perhaps not. He said he did not and I believed him. Perhaps I _chose_ to believe him—God knows I wanted to. I was sick, sick unto death, of the horrible fools' gold flash of the Imperial Court. The glamor of it had faded in the aftermath of my own near-death in Tehran—it was forever lost upon Feridoon's assassination.

I did not want this man, who seemed to me to be as much a prisoner in the Shah's world as a partaker in its sins, to be the author of my unhappiness. That bit of sympathy I had for him generated the most fleeting sense of trust. And that sense of trust, as tenuous as it was, made the idea that Erik had betrayed my family—heartbreaking.

I could not stand to have my heart broken again. In the midst of that desolation of faith, alone and vulnerable and as pliable as I was, I decided to trust him. Perhaps it was the greatest act of naïveté I have ever committed, but I do not regret it. Trusting Erik has saved my life more than once and in more than one way.

After Feridoon's death I saw much more Erik. _Much_ more. I saw him absolutely mad, raving at Nadir. I saw him revert to a child at times, completely baffled as to who he was and what he was doing. I saw him try to be good and I watched him fall into badness. I saw his cruelty from a distance, but his kindness firsthand.

I remember when he accompanied me to Feridoon's grave for my last compulsory visit. He brought along a gheychak and played some song that lightened my spirits considerably.

"I think it is Bach," he told me, "and I am fairly certain it has something to do with death or resurrection or the like." After a moment he asked, "Do you think we will be all right, Mojgan?"

I do not remember how I replied. But time testifies that I did indeed manage to be 'all right.' So did Erik, I suppose, though it took him quite a bit longer.

My housekeeper tells me that we have another set of the Brussels lace curtains in storage. I suppose they're not the least bit modern, but would you like them for your dressing room in the Geneva house? Let me know, and I will send them along with my next letter.

_Mojgan Banu Khanum_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, I am neither Persian nor Muslim. I have tried to maintain some sort of factual integrity, but there are bound to be mistakes. Do let me know, if you spot one. That said, I have spoken with a number of friends and acquaintances that do fall into the above categories. I ended up with a lot of 'yes, but—' and 'should, but never really—' sorts of answers. That, combined with the 'fast and loose and faithful when it suits' tendencies of this era and social sphere, I'm comfortable bending the rules a bit. Chances are, someone did it—so why not have that someone be Mojgan?  
> Also… total Leroux reference towards the end there. A gheychak is more or less the Persian version of a violin (okay, it's a bowed lute. Not a violin at all.) Bach composed a little piece entitled Die Auferweckung Lazarus. This, to my mind, is a rather too cheery thing for Erik to play in graveyards. But that's Leroux for you.


	24. The Mirror

_Ping._

If Erik paid the slightest bit of attention, he could have heard nearly everything on the construction site. The raised voice of the foreman, the laughs and shouts of the workers, the shaping of stone, the sawing of wood, hammering, pounding, digging: such was the symphony of assembly.

_Ping._

A symphony that did not much interest him at the moment. He was absorbed in his own solo performance. He sat in one of the mostly-completed rooms of the main building, cross-legged, with his attention focused on his anvil and hammer.

_Ping, ping, ping._

The gold sheet was taking on a nice curve. Erik would have been pleased, if he had not been so intent. This was the third lion-shaped automaton he had worked on. The first one had been a disaster from the start. Its unfinished head stared at Erik from across the makeshift workshop. The second had been assembled with some alacrity. The paws batted playfully at a model bird and the mouth connected to a drum of al-Jazari's programmable model.

This third specimen was coming together as quickly as Erik could manufacture the desired parts. He could see the entire mechanism unfurled before his mind's eye, layers of gears and pumps and casings. Now this was real magic, forcing a vision into reality. For the moment, it was the only thing he was truly aware of.

_Ping, ping, scratch, ping—_

When he finally emerged from the creative spell, Erik was faced with a more or less complete product. Some details added to the mane, a good polish, a connection to the palace's hydraulic mechanism, and his lion would come roaring to life.

He gazed into the empty eyes of beast, imagining them fitted with lifelike glass models. Or glittering gems? Knowing the Shah, it would be the latter, though Erik thought the former would be a better choice.

With the absence of distraction, Erik slowly noticed how quiet his workroom was. What outside noise penetrated in was subdued. It was probably dark outside.

_Tick._

He focused on the muffled sound of his watch. Several seconds passed before another _tick-tick_ came from his pocket. It was a very fine timepiece and probably the most useful gift the Shah had bestowed on Erik. If it was losing time, Erik could only assume that he had forgotten to wind it. But he distinctly recalled winding it that morning. Well, at least he had done so the last morning Erik remembered.

Other details came slowly into focus for him: the scratch of stubble against his mask, the piles of ash around the brazier, a dark pit of hunger gnawing in his gut.

The question of _how many days this time?_ was not one he wanted to answer.

He stood and stumbled. His knees were sore and his eyes blurred a little. He took off the mask, rubbed at his face, and then cursed. He had kept the stupid thing on far too long, if his raw chaffed cheeks were any indication. Still cursing, he forced down a few pistachios and a gulp of cold (and probably disgustingly old) tea.

He made sure that the room was locked up tightly and then departed through one of the palace's many hidden passages. Between the behind-walls labyrinth he had designed and the carefully constructed acoustics, the Shah's courtiers would be hard pressed to keep a single spoken word secret. Erik imagined that he would personally find it immensely useful. After all, what better way to protect oneself than knowing one's enemies? And what better way to learn of the enemy than through their supposed secrets?

He was beginning to appreciate that blackmail could be an infinitely more elegant solution to some of his difficulties than the ones he currently employed. Elegant, and considerably less nightmare inducing. He was growing sick of waking up screaming, his mind full of filmy, accusing eyes. How long would they follow him around? For the rest of his life? Into eternity? The thought invited a wave of nausea to overcome him. He paused, leaning against the roughly finished stone.

He pushed aside the queasiness and tried to put things into proper perspective. Hungry. Tired. _Hurt, betrayed, furious—_ He stopped again. It was tempting to push it all aside, to tear apart each bit of pain and bury it, but that had _not gone well last time_. For a brief while, he had managed to forget the rift that had arisen between himself and the Daroga, only to be forcibly reminded of it when he had seen the man and recognized the horrid, sanctimonious disdain in his eyes.

Mojgan had been there as well, he remembered. But her soft eyes and reassuring smiles were simply not enough. There had been a terrible quarrel, as usual. Erik had… well, he couldn't quite remember that, either.

But he _did_ remember waking up one morning, getting dressed, winding his watch, and thinking about al-Jazari's _Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanics._

He couldn't even guess when that had been. He swallowed a few more pistachios, made sure his mask was secure, and stepped out into an open courtyard.

He had been wrong about the time. It was not late at night, but dawn. Dawn and a deserted construction site could only mean Friday. Which in turn meant—three days and four nights? That sounded about right, give or take a day.

He was not surprised to find his horse gone. One of the overseers had been instructed to take care of it, if and when Erik disappeared for too long. But who was there to take care of Erik? No one had stayed to lead him to pasture and make sure he was properly fed.

 _And if someone had, what would you have done?_ _Would you have played the role of docile domestic beast, allowed yourself to be petted and attended to?_

He found a group of guards and slaves towards the south of the palace, and commandeered one of their horses. At an easy trot, he would reach the Nowshahr Palace in under an hour. For once, that palace was a desirable prospect. He could kill for a cup of tea.

_Oh, why would Erik think such a thing? What is wrong with you, you unnatural freak?_

_…_ _ah, Erik answered his own question, as usual. Are you hell spawned or merely hell bound?_

His inner monologue took on Nadir's tone, and Erik found himself cursing aloud to drown out the sound. He urged his mount into a canter, but the beast could not maintain it long. He was tempted to kick again and again until they reached his desired traveling speed, but stopped.

_Beat the beast out of your own beastliness, will you?_

"Erik will not," he shouted, " _I will not_."

He turned his thoughts firmly to breakfast, and the people he would not kill to get it. Perhaps he should bypass the palace and go to Mojgan's home? She was always willing to feed him and it infuriated Nadir to no end.

Upon further consideration, no. Nowshahr Palace appeared quickly enough and Erik fell into his usual routine of glaring and weaving in and out of sight. There was an undercurrent of agitation at the gates, but Erik ignored it. He would surely discover its meaning later.

"Jadugar Agha!"

He turned to see one of the harem guards coming in his direction. The stone-faced façade expected of the Shah's officers had slipped. The man looked quite troubled.

" _What_?"

"The Sultana—"

That was enough for Erik. He forgot such notions as bed and breakfast as he pushed past the guard and headed towards the women's enclave.

It was in uproar. From behind the walls, he could hear her. She was screaming— _howling_. She had forsaken her broken Persian for her rustic Arabian dialect. He barely understood a word, though he was fairly certain that _some_ of those words were obscene.

Even he could not pass the stoic eunuch guards into the inner courtyards, but someone must have told her that Erik had arrived.

She fairly flew out, whirling like a dervish with her robes swirling about her in a furious striped tempest. Her arms were flung out wide. For an instant Erik thought she intended to embrace him.

She did not. Still crying madly, she struck at him repeatedly, her small hands curled into feeble fists. Perhaps she was not so feeble—she angled her rings into Erik's stomach and put a fierce amount of power behind each blow.

He fought not to recoil or retaliate, though he was desperately inclined to do both. He took steadying breath after steadying breath and clamped down on the violence each act of violence called up in him. He watched her with his eyes wide and his hands kept rigidly at his sides.

"You—" Persian words were slipping back into her diatribe. Erik listened intently. "You—" that was definitely an insult—"weren't—you – _there_!"

The hits slowed. Her tears caught in her throat and she screamed again. " _You weren't there!_ " Her fist connected with his ribs again, three times in short succession. He finally caught her hand after the last strike and held it.

"Sultana?" he kept his voice low and calm. "Dear Sultana, what happened?"

She collapsed then, crumpling to the stone ground like an unstrung marionette. Erik, perforce, went down with her.

In some other world he might have actually enjoyed himself. It was a fascinating thing to see so proud a creature brought so low, to have a woman's tears soak the cuff of his jacket. She was too distraught to pull away from his awkward pats of comfort. With the rosy tints of morning catching on the nearby fountains and flowers, he could almost picture himself in that other world. There he was, in his beautiful garden with his beautiful lady (a lady as any other man might keep one, not a liege lady) crying to him over some small trifle.

_You weren't there. If you had been there, everything would have been better._

_I'll never leave you again,_ Dream Erik would assure his delicate Dream Lady. _And they lived happily until the Destroyer of All Happiness came…_

But apparently, the Destroyer had tried to intrude upon the Sultana. He pieced together her story as best he could, sorting through the invectives and tears.

Someone had tried to kill her.

_…_ _and you were not there to protect her._

He turned the thought over and over in his mind, oddly detached. He looked at the raw, bloody cuts on one of her arms as a doctor might, assessing damage. It was certainly an interesting development, one he had not foreseen. What sort of fool tried to kill one of the Shah's wives in the Shah's own harem? It was almost a good thing that the Shah had departed on yet another hunting trip. Mazandaran would have been mayhem if so bold an assassination attempt had been made right under the Shah's very nose.

Abstractly, he thought of how Mojgan had nearly been killed, not eight feet away from the Shah himself. Had she wept and raged so? He doubted it. He shook the thought away.

_Someone has attacked Erik's Sultana. What shall Erik do?_

What was it that she had said once? _Your fealty leaves something to be desired, Erik._ He could not allow her to think such a thing again.

They remained on the ground for what seemed like hours, the Sultana a trembling mess of robes and veils. He listened to her haphazard theories carefully. _Anis al-Dawla_ , she said. Erik thought it very unlikely that she would have masterminded such a move, but he did not say so. _Farah Kamali_ , she said. Erik did not think that probable, either.

"Mahdeh Olia," she finally said, "has always hated me."

Mahdeh Olia would never have been so clumsy. He actually did voice that opinion, and was rewarded with a withering look.

"The assassin is in custody?" he asked.

She nodded, rubbing her eyes. Her fingers came away black with the remnants of her kohl.

He reached out to pat her shoulder again but let his hand fall short. They seemed to be past comforting now. Perhaps it was for the better. Erik did not know the first thing about consolation. "Then perhaps I shall speak with him, hm?"

She laughed at that. It was a brittle sound. "Do! Your _friend_ the Daroga has him!"

Erik winced at the thought of seeing Nadir again so soon, but he would rally for his little sultana. After all, she ruled his heart, did she not?

She slowly transformed back to her usual self. Her slender fingers worried the hem of her outer robe, picking at loose threads.

"Back home, when a man committed such a crime, we would bind his hands and blindfold him and walk him round and round in circles so he did not know where he was," she whispered, "we would half cut his bounds and leave him out in the desert. Out in the desert, without food or drink. Just the sands, the endless sands. The sands are like mirrors, jagariman, mirrors that shine back on your soul and strip it bare—like, like sun bleached bones." She paused and lost something of the singsongish intonation she often acquired when she reminisced. "Once, when we came back to check on such a man, we found that he had taken his ropes and hanged himself in an old cypress tree." She giggled. "You could tell he hadn't done it properly. His toes were touching the ground."

"He strangled himself," Erik whispered.

She nodded. "Went mad and strangled himself. What a trick!" She grew quiet for a moment. " _He_ deserves to go mad and strangle himself. Doesn't he?"

Erik could only assume she meant her would-be assassin, and so agreed.

* * *

Eventually, the Sultana skipped away. It seemed that she had forgotten her worries, but Erik could see the tightness in her posture. She was as defensive and mad as a caged tiger.

The eunuchs that had all but disappeared during her scene and later reasserted their presence and made it clear that Erik had no further business in their domain.

He couldn't agree more. His mind was awhirl with plans—or were they plots? Either way, they would certainly put the question of his devotion to rest.

The sands are like mirrors… The image was vivid in his mind, the mechanics of it laid bare like the workings of his automata. A mirror facing another mirror: infinite mirror images, all reflecting the mad agony of the desert dunes. (Or maybe pomegranates? He was fond of pomegranates and could probably eat a barrel of them at the moment.)

He was a magician, wasn't he? If not a magician, than certainly an illusionist. And it sounded like just the sort of illusion the Sultana needed to see in order to cheer her spirits.

"Jadugar Agha." The title and voice that used it took Erik by surprise. It came from a latticed window of the women's rooms. "Still playing knight-errant for the girl?"

Erik pressed his fingered through the eyeholes of his mask and rubbed. "Mahdeh Olia." He suffered to make a slight bow.

"You would do well to stay out of these walls, little man."

Erik cackled at the appellation. He and Nadir were of a height, and they were both frequently the tallest man in the room. But Erik would admit to not having quite so much weight on him. He thought suddenly of a dish of stew Mojgan had sent home with him one day. It had been some sort of specialty of her home region, a stew with tomatoes and barberries. The memory of it was making him salivate now. Stew certainly sounded delightful. _Khoreshteh Khanum_ , perhaps? He laughed again. So he _had_ turned cannibal, had he now?

"It sounds like I might have been of some use," he replied, "your guardsmen were certainly quite useless."

"Were they?" she asked, sounding a bit bored. "I think they did their duty splendidly."

"Then you wanted to see one of your son's wives bloodied and beaten?" Erik shot back. Damn, damn, damn. _Erik will need his own cypress tree and Punjab lasso, if he continues in this vein. Won't I?_

"You mock me," she sounded vaguely surprised.

"No, woman, _you_ mock me." _What gives you the right to mock me? Don't you know what I am?_

_Why does everyone want to poke at the monster? Don't they realize I can't control him?_

There was a long pause. "I was not in jest when I told you to stay away from these courtyards. You have no business— no right to be here."

"No right but right of being," Erik shrugged. "I was called for."

"Even as Zahhak was called up as a savior—by fools. But his reign ended in fire and infamy."

"Perhaps. But who removed Zahhak from his throne? Did it not take the most valiant and fair of heroes to do so? Can you claim to be that, khanum?"

There was another pause, and when she spoke again, her voice was oddly whimsical. "Well, you took care of that, did you not? Hm? You know your epics, little man. Who conquered wicked Zahhak?"

The name was on the tip of Erik's tongue, but it refused to be spoken.

Mahdeh Olia answered for him. "Was it not _Feridoon_ who took a mace to the monster? Well, this time the monster took the mace to Feridoon—and so fate has left me alone to cleanse my house."

This slander, again? Surely _someone_ besides the dead man's own wife knew Erik to be innocent! "Peace, lady," Erik growled, "and leave Erik be."

"You wretch," she said. Her voice was less obscured now, as though she had come closer to screen, but still quite fey. "You pathetic skeleton. Did your mother love you, creature? You have a mother, after all. You are merely a man—a meager, measly man. My eyes are older than yours, _Jadugar,_ and they have seen wonders and horrors beyond _your_ conjuring. Conjure yourself some worth, if you insist on being called a wizard."

Erik had set his jaw painfully closed, and had to force it open. "Wretch and skeleton and wizard—I may be all of these or none of these, Madam. But what are you? You hidden, veiled creature with your waning power in your waning empire." He snickered, against his better sense. "Oh, yes. Cyrus the Great, you all say. The Persian Empire—the conquerors of the world. What have you now? Nothing, but a scrap of land between seas. Important only as a pawn between _real_ world powers. You are an old woman with old ideas in an old land. What does your scorn mean to me?"

"My scorn is the scorn of the whole world," she said. "And if this is a pitiful, dying land, what does that make you? If the Shah is a man of small value to the world, what does that make his _servant_? You? Angel of Death? Ha. Perhaps the rat that comes to feed off of death, or the fly that lives on a corpse. Here is my prediction, _Erik_ , and it comes from a surer magic than your tricks: your brilliance will blind you. Your deformity will sink ever deeper, until your heart and mind are as grotesque as your face. No man will call you friend; no woman will look on you as her lover. You are a ghost. You may masquerade as a man for now, but that illusion will fade—as all illusions must. You may continue to live, but you will not be alive. Go, ghost. Play at life while you may."

" _Threats,_ khanum?" If she wanted threats, Erik could provide them in scores! He was about to bring this very fact to her attention when he heard the distinct sound of retreating footfalls.

* * *

_Tick, tick, tick._

He should have been able to hear the general hubbub of the palace. The servants moving being the open windows, the distant clatter of mounted guards, the birdsong within the harem walls. But he could not. All he could hear—or at least hear and comprehend—was the ticking of his watch.

 _Tick_.

He pulled it out again and looked at it curiously. A man could go mad from that sound, couldn't he? Erik could.

 _Tick_.

…Well, that was an idea, was it not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …and, yes, poor Erik's starving, sleep-deprived, Sultana-addled brain concocted 'Lady Stew.' Which is really just another way of saying that your authoress succumbed to the temptation of alliteration in a foreign language. Apologies. Also, I wrote this the morning after seeing a production of Richard III. It shows a bit more than I'd like.


	25. The Chamber

Nadir was locked in a contest of wills.

It was not an unfamiliar situation for him. In the course of his career, he had often sat in a deadlock, forced to rely on little more than his own determination and diligence. Mercifully, he had both traits in superabundance, and so usually came away victorious.

But what could a man (even a determined and diligent one) do when deadlocked with his supreme monarch? Nadir sat across from his King and Emperor, at an absolute stalemate.

"You know I have great… faith in your opinions, Nadir," Naser al-Din said. The addition of _but they are merely_ your _opinions_ was obvious, if unspoken.

"Have you _seen_ this—" Nadir waved his hand vaguely, unsure of how best to describe Erik's latest trick. He had heard it called a hall of mirrors. The Shah called it _the illusion room._ Erik had laughed and referred to it as _my little equatorial forest._ Whatever it was, Nadir couldn't help but think it was _bad._

The Shah did not share his reticence. "I saw the original designs."

"Before it was _repurposed,_ " Nadir pointed out.

The Shah shrugged, and they were back to their impasse.

It was at such moments that a man might mistake the Naser al-Din for an absolute fool. Ignorant, stubborn, decadent—all of the European perceptions forced to life in the Shah's limp, impassive face. Nadir knew better. But, really, was it any easier to deal with a man who _appeared_ to be a fool than the genuine article?

"What I have not mentioned," the Shah shifted and leaned over his massive marquetry desk a little, "what I had not thought _needed_ mentioning, was the fact that a message _does_ need to be made. Hm? As the _Daroga_ of this province, you surely recognize that."

 _Daroga_ should have been an honorable title. Why was it then that Nadir constantly felt like it was being thrown at him as an insult? It was an old, old term and rare outside of formal circles. Perhaps the infinitely more common near-homophone _daroogha_ was finally stripping the title of its nobility. Perhaps even the Shah did not hear _Police Chief_ when he said Daroga—perhaps he heard _Lies._

Well, if no one else knew—if no one else cared to know— _Nadir_ knew what his title meant, and he knew what responsibilities it carried.

"Yes, a message does need to be sent," Nadir said, "but we _have_ ways of sending such messages. We do not need to resort to sensationalism."

"An attack was made on one of my wives," the Shah said, "sensationalism seems to me to be the only appropriate reply."

"Yes, Your Majesty. But Erik's—"

"Did you not bring the Living Corpse to me?" The Shah asked rhetorically.

 _Did you not ask for him?_ "The apparatus is untested." _I hope._

Another shrug. "And have you ever seen one of Erik's innovations fail? He proved himself so far, both in the designs he provided to keep Dost Mohammed in his place, and closer to home."

"There are different ways to fail," Nadir grumbled. He caught himself and tried to marshal some small bit of courtliness. "Your Majesty, I am simply wary of using unproven methods to send so important a message. Erik is a genius, yes, but there are limits to what genius should be allowed to do."

"The only limit I impose is that such genius is used in my service."

"And what if it is one day used otherwise?"

The Shah smiled at Nadir benignly. "Then I expect you to deal with it appropriately at that time."

The interview ended. Aides that had been all but invisible for the last quarter hour suddenly appeared with a myriad of urgent matters for the Shah's attention. Naser al-Din waved Nadir away.

Nadir made his formal farewells, bowed, and backed away.

"Oh, Daroga?" The Shah was absorbed in a large folder and did not look up.

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"You _will_ attend to the other security matters involved, hm? _Merci_."

Nadir would certainly attend. How could he not? It had been some time since he had seen Erik _perform._

He was dreading it.

* * *

The guest list was a peculiar mix of the Shah's personal friends and his political enemies. A good deal of the harem was present as well, hidden behind improvised curtains.

As far as Nadir could tell, no one was particularly happy to have been dragged out to the half-done seaside retreat. It was unnerving to be in such an unfamiliar place, the sunset light creeping into the uninhabited palace through empty window frames and the unfinished ceiling.

The Shah was personally in high humor, laughing with his ladies and draining his wine cup.

Nadir could not relax. He walked the dining room restlessly. Darius was tripping at his heels.

"Daroga!"

Nadir paused at the seat of Muhammad Khan Qajar. "Khan Agha?"

"Do you know the meaning of this?"

"As far as I am concerned, this is the lawful execution of man convicted of high treason," Nadir replied carefully.

"An execution with supper," Muhammad huffed. "If word spreads—and it will spread—the English will have all the fodder they need to cut us out of their foreign policy. _Barbarism._ " The premier may have worn traditional robes and a turban, but his beard owned more to Tsar Alexander's bushy side whiskers and mustache than any Islamic fashion.

Nadir inclined his head respectfully. "I have it on good authority that this execution be extraordinary in the extreme."

"Oh, good," one of the premier's companions groaned, "one always wants _extraordinary_ executions."

Nadir could not help but agree with that sentiment, but he did not show it. He excused himself and continued on his review of the posted guards and observation of the guests.

They were almost all uncomfortable. Nadir could not blame them. One never knew how evenings like this might come to an end—or _who_ might come to an end.

All at once, the dining room was a blaze of light. Wall sconces, chandeliers—every light source in the room seemed to explode. Nadir blinked against the onslaught of brightness and turned his attention to the wall closest to the Shah.

The large curtain ascended into the ceiling, revealing a panel of dark glass. It did not run the entire length of the room, but it was large enough to command the attention of the Shah's guests.

On cue, servitors starting bringing in supper. No one paid the slightest bit of attention to them. The smallest buzz interrupted the silence of the room. It faded, reappeared, and faded again—rather like the buzz of a fly.

The sound of stumbling and cursing came from the other side of the double-sided mirror, drowning out the fly sounds. There was a shuffle, and then the roar of a lion—a man's voice exclaimed in fear and then cursed again.

This went on for some time. Then, all at once, the lights in the mirrored room came on. The Shah's guests gave a collective gasp and leaned forward.

The man in the room looked rather more collected than Nadir might have expected. True, he was already worn and depleted, his eyes blood shot and his hands twitching. Nadir knew this was not the first time he had been in this room. But he did his best to stand tall. He knew he was going to die—perhaps he had decided to try to go out with some measure of dignity.

But it was hard to maintain one's dignity when a thousand mirror images of one's own suffering reflected back.

Nadir found himself admiring the man somewhat. He maintained his composure admirably. He walked in a straight line, hands out until he reached one of the mirrored walls. His hands shook badly, but he closed his eyes and tried to follow the perimeter of the room by feel.

He lost his balance—Nadir suspected it was not his own fault—and cursed again.

Was it just Nadir's perception, or was the light brightening? The would-be assassin wiped sweat from his brow and tried to start his search for the walls again. He was having a much harder time now.

Then, the birdsong started. It was faint at first, but grew in volume. The man looked around his prison rapidly, lost his balance, and fell to the floor again.

At that point, the tree appeared.

It seemed to grow out of the very floor—first the trunk, and then the branches appeared with their little birds. Nadir's focus shifted away from the one tree and he realized with a jolt that the one tree was now a thousand. An infinite forest made of infinite reflections, the artificial sun beating down.

The man scrambled to one of the trees—Nadir couldn't even guess if it was the real one or not. He tried to sit beneath the spare branches, but there was no relief from the unrelenting heat.

Who knew how long the tortures lasted? Food sat ignored on the tables—even the wine was untouched.

The light became impossibly brighter.

The man cried.

The man raved.

He struck at the floor until his fists were bloodied.

And then the light dimmed—just a little. The reflection of the trees faded—

Something like an oasis appeared at the base of the real steel tree. The man reached for it with a trembling hand as the birdsong reasserted itself.

A rope appeared, tied to a branch. How it came to be there, Nadir could not guess. The man's bruised fingers circled around the rope—a noose. It was a noose. He snorted and babbled. He was about to release his grip, defiant.

But the lights flared again, and the forest was back, denser than ever.

Somehow—God, or perhaps the Devil, alone knew how—the noose found its way around the man's neck. He was too low to hang properly, and so cried until he was strangled of breath, his toes jerking against the floor helplessly.

The lights went out. The curtain fell. All was silence, save the distant sound of a woman's laugh.

Nadir went to rub his eyes. He was surprised to find that his hand came away wet with tears.

He wanted to feel some sympathy for the dead man. He was a villain, yes, and guilty as sin. But somehow (again, it was either God or the Devil who knew how,) the only sympathy he seemed to have was for the man who had created that room of horrors.

And with that realization, Nadir left the dining room and set out on a search.

* * *

He found Erik in the workshop behind the mirrored room. It was a mess. Erik, though a packrat, tended to be neat. Erik sat in the middle of it, his long legs stretched out before him, long arms propping him up. His red Circassian coat was thrown over one shoulder, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. It did not bode well for him to be so surrounded by mayhem.

"Did they enjoy it?" he asked. He did not turn to face Nadir.

Nadir considered his reply carefully. "The Shah appeared to be very pleased."

"And you call _me_ the monster." He tossed a silk purse to Nadir. "The Sultana sent me this. Go on. Take a look."

Nadir opened the purse and pulled out a long link chain made of solid gold. At the end, it looped.

"A lasso?"

"Or a leash," Erik commented brightly. "I'm not sure which."

Nadir carefully coiled the weapon into its innocuous container. "The torture chamber—"

"At last! Someone knows what to proper call it! Erik always knew the Daroga wasn't a _complete_ fool."

"Did you test it?"

"Of course," Erik replied. After a moment he added, "On myself, Daroga. You needn't run off your head looking for lost slaves."

Erik started idly playing with the purse. For a moment, it appeared the entire bag was immersed in flame. A tiny voice screamed from within _help! Help!_

The illusion faded as quickly as it had been conjured. Erik peered theatrically into the bag. "Oh, dear. It looks like I was too late."

There was something in the timbre of his voice that reminded Nadir of earlier days. He came a little closer, and resisted the urge to put his hand on Erik's shoulder.

"How old are you, Erik?"

Erik shrugged. "No one knows that. Not even Erik. Which is quite a trick, because Erik really does know everything."

"Does Erik know that it is not good for him to be left alone for so long?" Nadir asked.

"Erik is always alone." A long white hand, even more scarred than it had been in months past, came up and rubbed at the back of Erik's neck. "What are you driving at, Daroga? I am tired, and I think I am mad." He paused and added in a curiously detached voice, "I loathe it when I _know_ that I am mad."

"Come back to my house," Nadir said. "Darius will make up one of the guest rooms and we will drink tea." _And try to forget._

" _Taarof, taarof, taarof,"_ Erik said back, "how many times do I need to refuse before I know if you are sincere?"

"It's not taarof. I _am_ sincere."

"I thought we weren't friends."

Nadir paused. "We're not. Nor am I responsible for you. But it is not good for you to isolate yourself so."

"You worry for your dear Mazandaranis? Worry that poor mad Erik will shove them in mirrored rooms and drive them mad?"

"Not particularly. I am, however, worried for you." Nadir paused again. "But I am still not your friend."

Erik motioned wordlessly to his mask. "I have never expected friends."

"It is not that," _at least not_ only _that,_ "the fact of the matter is, Erik—you could rule the world. And I am frightened to find out what will be required to content you."

Erik laughed and shrugged. "Well, then, _Daroga_ , I accept your unfriendly offer of hospitality. Shall we leave?"

Nadir glanced around the work room again. It seemed to him like a miasma arose from the work benches and tightly capped jars. "Yes, I think so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to Dost Mohammed is as close as I got to Erik turning "his diabolical inventive powers against the Emir of Afghanistan," as Leroux said. Honestly, I would have liked to do a lot more with that, but it kept screwing with the flow of the story. Alas.


	26. The Play

The Caspian coast was alive with activity, for the Shah was leaving Mazandaran.

_Again._

Erik wondered if such fanfare was really warranted. It seemed to him that the Shah had spent very little time actually at his Mazandarani court this time. Mostly, he had roamed the mountains and the surrounding provinces, attempting to maintain the illusion that he was leaving the government to his council. Erik did not think it was a trick long for the world.

For once, Erik was not involved with the pageantry.

"I would like to see the seaside retreat complete by the New Year," the Shah had said, "You can do that, yes?"

Erik shrugged and used a single, extremely informal word to signify his consent.

The Shah half-smiled, choosing to be amused, and waved Erik away.

Erik could not complain. It suited him to have some project to work on, some goal to strive for. He would have happily remained at his kingdom by the sea for… well, forever. If not forever, then at least for the rest of the year.

The Daroga had other plans. He had resumed his role of Erik's Watcher with a diligence that bordered on _vengeance._ Erik was unsure of what to make of it.

"The Shah is departing tomorrow morning," Nadir said, picking his way around the stacks of tiles surrounding Erik. "He has put out a grand feast of charity this afternoon."

"Really? I had no idea. Is _that_ why half of my skilled laborers have abandoned me?" Erik smiled viciously, the curve of his lip just visible under the rim of his mask, "You have eased my mind of a great burden, Daroga. I had thought it was my ill humor that drove them away. I had just resolved to repent of myself and become a better man. But now I see there is no need. Thank you!"

Nadir knocked off a tile from the top of a stack. He had the decency to look sheepish when he saw that the blue enamel had chipped, but it was not enough to deter him from further trivialities. "I know you have little interest in _picnics._ But tonight, one of the local troupes is performing. I think you should attend."

For the first time since Nadir's arrival, Erik actually stopped fiddling with a mosaic panel and looked up. "Should I indeed?"

"You will enjoy yourself," the Daroga sounded uncommonly certain.

Erik simply stared at him for a while. "Thank you, but no."

"You are welcome, and so yes. Will you come back to the house with me, or will I be obliged to come and collect you?"

"I have no desire to sit through several hours—because you know it _will_ be several hours—of tedious amateur theatrics."

"Certainly not amateurs, Erik. And I do not think you'll find it tedious _._ It's _tazieh._ " The Daroga tried to smile at him, his hands spread wide. He was much too… earnest. It grated on Erik's nerves.

"Why is this so important to you?"

"You haven't been the same since…" Nadir trailed off, probably in a way he thought was meaningful.

Erik nearly laughed. "If that were true, wouldn't you be _pleased_ about it?"

Apparently, Erik had finally subverted the last of Nadir's patience. The Daroga rolled his eyes and grumbled. "It's music. You like music."

"I like _good_ music." After a beat, Erik returned to his mosaic. "And stop using such infantile phrases. I am not a child."

"Erik—"

" _Not a child,_ " Erik held up a hand, "However, if I do not find the performance to my liking, I cannot guarantee that I will not throw a tantrum."

Nadir considered this for a moment. "You _will_ like it." With this final pronouncement, he wandered off, leaving Erik alone.

* * *

It would have been easy enough to elude the good Daroga for the rest of the day. It was certainly a tempting thought. But Erik, driven by forces he could not properly identify ( _fear, affection, boredom_ —did it really matter?), accompanied Nadir back to Nowshahr.

It turned out that the performance was wholly separate from the earlier, open feast. One of the large palace rooms had been turned into an impromptu theater. The humidity of the summer evening was stifling. Erik was not impressed.

"I do not know why we are here," Erik grumbled. "If they needed a room for a stage performance, I designed a very nice one at the seaside palace."

"The seaside palace is still under construction," the Daroga pointed out.

"It is complete _enough_."

"Man is a peculiar creature," Nadir replied with great equanimity. "When presented the option between a familiar, comfortably furnished room and a strange, drafty one, they almost always choose the former."

Erik harrumphed. "The ventilation is terrible. Lighting's bad, too."

Nadir still appeared unmoved. "The acoustics are very fine." He accepted tea from a passing servitor—Erik merely glared and sent the boy scurrying away. Nadir lifted an eyebrow.

"It could be poisoned," Erik said in reply.

Nadir looked down into his tea cup. "Yes, it could be." He took a sip anyway. After a moment, he added, "there are worse ways to die."

Erik fell silent, watching the Daroga from the corner of his eye. The man baffled him, with his courtly polish and professional persistence and his personal—indifference? Irreverence? It would have been simpler if the Daroga had been a _smaller_ man, easy to categorize. The bitter miser or the brash captain or the bashful lover—but life was not an Italian comedy sketch, now was it? That was, perhaps, a blessing _._

At long last, the Shah ambled into the room, drawing cheerful praises from the assembled audiences. Were they wishing him well, or wishing him _gone_? Erik did not know. He ignored the Shah, only making a formal show of obeisance when Nadir jabbed him in the ribs. He ignored the entire assembled audience, for that matter, and kept his eyes trained on the empty stage, waiting for the tazieh to begin.

Eventually, it did begin—with an ear-splitting wail.

Erik found it curious how Persian music still sounded so _alien_ to him. He genuinely enjoyed it, had learned to play it, and yet…

The play progressed from that single wail to a whole host of wails and trills and drawn out notes. They were playing out some mythological tale, filled with a considerable amount of _sentiment,_ not to mention _violence_.

One of the characters was killed. The singers wailed. Nearly everyone in the room wailed as well, overcome with emotion. Even the Daroga looked a little glassy eyed in the half-light. Erik was given to understand that was the entire point of the tazieh genre, to force an audience into _feeling_.

Erik certainly _felt_ , but he suspected it wasn't quite the feeling the composer or performers had in mind.

It was said that tazieh was 'Persian opera.' Erik somehow doubted that it was an accurate comparison. He had heard _opera_ before, and it was magnificent in the truest sense of the word. It was great, and grand, and _splendid._ He could remember standing outside of a theater in Venice, the faint sounds of the orchestra running up his limbs and through his soul. The same thing had happened years earlier. . He had a vague memory of being in some cathedral somewhere (Italy? France? Or was it actually Russia? They all had over-sized, grandiose churches and Erik had spent more than his fair share of time hiding in them.) Music reverberated beautifully off of those vaulted ceilings—and that chant, something about days of wrath and moaning and mourning, echoed in Erik's heart. It was as if every bit of music he encountered attached itself to him, wove itself into the very fabric of his being.

Tazieh was something different. It resonated in him, yes, but it resonated incorrectly—like a badly tuned instrument. It was not _part_ of him, just as Persia was not—

Not _what?_ Not home? Home was such a deceptive idea—was it a place? A state of being? A dwelling of body or of affections? A single constant in a mad world? Didn't home usually involve _love?_ But, no, not for Erik—never for Erik.

The only thing Erik could think of when confronted with the word 'home' was—

Running.

Running far and fast and forever…

It was a cold, cold version of _home,_ but it certainly qualified as a _constant._

By the time the play ended—and it had indeed been a waste of _hours_ —Erik had worked himself into a passion to equal any of the tearstained Persians.

"I told you that you would enjoy it," the Daroga said. He even gave Erik's shoulder a hearty pat, a gesture Erik returned by flinching away. "You did, didn't you? You didn't throw a tantrum, after all."

Erik was actually surprised at how reasonable his voice came out. "It was fine."

It was not. Nothing was right in Erik's world at moment. Discordant music, bad ventilation, and a sense that _running_ would be inevitable.

…However.

Where there was life, there was hope. Erik was still alive, and he knew where to find hope.

And maybe a home.

* * *

The Shah was gone, and with him most of his household. There were always those who stayed behind: servants, minor family members, or even wives.

The Sultana had stayed in Mazandaran, because _'the sound of the sea didn't make her want to die anymore._ '

Erik had not had much time to spend with her in recent weeks, but that would change soon enough. He had worked night and day to complete the harem rooms in the palace— _his_ palace.

And now the Sultana— _his_ Sultana—was wandering through the rooms he had designed for her, followed by her coterie of ladies and guards. He glanced over the group briefly.

The Sultana caught the action and whined, "You're looking for the farm girl again!"

By now, Erik knew not to reply with any direct reference to Mojgan. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, "I am merely trying to determine who will scream the loudest when we go past the right wing—I made the wall supports from skulls."

"Ah, there's my angel of death," the Sultana giggled. "I was starting to think he had flown away. But, no, he's been making something pretty for his sultana."

Erik actually found the skulls rather gauche, but he knew she would appreciate the touch. He swept into a wide, low bow. "My lady, where first on your grand tour?"

They both enjoyed the 'tour' immensely. The Sultana, because Erik knew how to entrain her; Erik, because he delighted in making such entertainments for her.

The rest of the group seemed a little sick by the end, and they scattered when they stopped for a light luncheon in the half-finished gardens.

Erik snapped his fingers and the maintain fountain bubbled to life. He had tinted the water theatrically red and scented it with rose, and the Sultana clapped.

She sat at the edge of the fountain, watching the red water pour out of the stone lions' mouths. A maidservant brought a plate of dainties. Neither ate. The Sultana broke apart the little cakes and rolled the crumbs between her fingers before tossing them down to the ground.

Erik didn't even bother touching the food. It was enough to watch her. He sat on the ground, her skirts fanned out next to him. He could not feel the silk brushing his coat shoulder, but he could _imagine_ it. The guards were standing at a good distance, and the ladies were practically hiding inside the buildings.

Erik saw his opportunity. "I have a question for you, Sultana."

She waved at him to continue, which did not seem like sufficient attention to Erik.

"It's important," he said.

She shrugged.

Well. Perhaps she would be more inclined to attend once she knew what the question was. Erik breathed in for a moment, held the breath, and then asked: "Do you love me?"

Erik watched her veiled head swivel in his direction and tilt. "What?"

"Do you love me?" He reached out to her for a moment and then let his hand drop. He suspected that it should have been _easier_ to force out the words a second time. It was not.

She laughed at him. "You ass. What a question!"

"This is important!"

"Well," she shrugged and laughed again, "I suppose I have a fondness for you."

Erik picked at his cuff and straightened his coat. "I… _adore_ you."

"Of course you do!" She patted his head gamely. "You're my bad, mad dog! All dogs love their mistresses."

"I wish to be more," Erik whispered.

"More than a dog?" She sniffed. "Don't want that. We all have our places in the world, and we can't change them. Nobody can. Some of us are born sultanas and will die sultanas and no one can change that—not even sultans or shahs. And some of us are born dogs and will die dogs, and no one can change that—not even sultanas."

"Some dogs can run far and fast," Erik said, pleading. "Some sultanas can, too—especially if they are little enough for a dog to carry. They can run and run and run until what they are doesn't matter. Dogs can be men and sultanas can be sweethearts!"

The little sultana was very quiet. All at once, her robes rustled and she stood. "Go away, Erik."

"Sultana—"

Her fingers turned to claws and she dug into her veil, leaving trails of cake crumbs and smears of honey. "Go away! Go away, little dog! And stop barking at me!"

Erik realized that he had shifted onto his knees, his hands had a death grip on the edge of the fountain. He tried to let go—tried to reach for her, but his fists would not slacken.

He used his voice, his very best voice that owed more to stolen moments in opera houses and cathedrals than he would have liked to admit. " _Soraya._ "

She leaned down suddenly and stared into Erik's eyes. Her own were unfathomably dark—like deep water at midnight, or fresh ink, or—his musings were cut off when she spoke, her voice unusually level. "I will scream."

Erik almost laughed. "And will they come if you—"

"Yes," she said, quietly, "yes, they will. And some of them aren't afraid of you. Get up, Erik. Get up, and go away."

Erik stood automatically. "I thought—"

"Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, doesn't matter," the Sultana said, singsongish now. "It doesn't matter, when we're all on our way to hell. Run along now. Run back to hell. Maybe I'll catch up to you one day."

Erik listened. Erik ran.


	27. The Fairytale

Dear Shadi,

Poets have imbued the seasons with much significance. And perhaps there is something to that. There are the seasons of the sun, which give us leave to plant, to reap, to rest. But _fair_ spring and _foul_ winter? Persephone rises and feeds the word, Persephone descends and desolates the world—either way, Persephone rules the world.

(I suppose that it was inevitable that I would turn pagan, given my long isolation from Islam and utter disinterest in Christianity.)

I spent but one winter of my life in Mazandaran. The magical colors of spring and summer were still there, but in subdued form. The fogs rolled in thickly, hiding entire neighborhoods from sight. And the eternal sentinel of the land, Damavand, rose up from the Alborz Mountains, unbelievably white, even against a washed-out sky.

In some ways, that one winter was as much a fairytale as my first summer had been. But I was no longer sure of my role in the story. It was certainly not that of the young bride reveling in her happy ending. Nor was I some cursed princess, though I suppose part of me did await the arrival of a hero.

If anything, I was the madwoman. I spent much of that winter rambling through the forests, something I would have never been _allowed_ to do. But I didn't much care for allowances anymore. Grief and uncertainty had made me bold. I would not stand to be managed, even by as passive a hand as Khadija. I wanted to be alone, though a woman ought never to be so. And so I would leave without a word or a warning, and I would wander.

And on my wanderings, I was as insulated from the world by my thoughts as by Feridoon's old cashmere coats. I couldn't tell you what those thoughts were any more than I could tell you the color of the coats. I simply do not recall. Perhaps they were not important. Perhaps they were, but they certainly are no longer pertinent. What I most remember are the trees: the starkly bare alders, the evergreen boxwoods, the ruby buds of the ironwoods, the last yellowed oak leaves that refused to fall. These were my most constant companions, though not my _only_ companions.

No, for my one _real_ companion I had my counterpoint: the madman to my madwoman.

That is, I think, an unfair comparison. I was mad for a moment in time and no one suffered for my madness—not even myself. But poor Erik was mad _most_ of the time and _many_ suffered for. Himself most of all, I imagine. But _I_ did not suffer for it, and so I think I often forget about it.

I certainly forgot about it on those winter walks.

I remember the first time we crossed paths—quite literally—in the forest just east of Nowshahr. (That is to say, in the woods somewhere between the Nowshahr Palace and Erik's palace.) I hadn't been paying attention to my surroundings, but the sudden appearance of a man in a dark European-style overcoat was enough to make me take note.

Erik simply seemed confused.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Walking," I replied.

"Alone?"

I am sorry to say that my sense of humor, such as it is, has remained consistent over the years. I looked around me dramatically before turning back to Erik. "It would appear so."

"The Daroga would not be pleased," Erik reminded me sternly.

I had not considered that. I had not considered much of anything beyond the fact that I was comfortable with solitude in a way I had never expected to be. At first, I thought this might have been a legacy left over from Feridoon and his reserve, but I had slowly come to realize that it was really _my_ preferences finally being asserted. I was really, truly alone—and I did not much mind it in that moment. It was in that spirit that I replied: "Well, then, the Daroga does not need to know."

Just when I thought I had Erik figured out—I was sure he would laugh at that statement—he surprised me again. He sighed. Not dramatically or theatrically, but quietly. Sincerely. "So, in the end, even you are something of a liar."

I did not know how to reply. I never knew how to reply to _that_ Erik, the introspective Erik that stood apart from the rest of man and _judged._ "It's done without malice," I said. "Surely that counts for something?"

He took a long time about replying and I found myself wandering away. I soon realized that Erik was walking with me, though he moved almost silently. We did not speak much during that first walk nor on the one to follow. But eventually, I would make a comment and Erik would reply, or Erik would joke and I would laugh, or we would be quiet and the quiet would be companionable.

Eventually, we spoke more. Sometimes he would almost rave on a subject, launching off from one point and sticking to it for an hour, places and people and things rolling off his tongue as if he was reliving some memory moment-by-moment. Or, it would be just a few words, usually the simplest of them, said in a tone of quiet confession and then silence would follow. Piece by piece, I learned of a mother who taught him to read and let him play her piano, but who would burst into tears and flee every time she was occasioned to say his name. I learned of a father who was almost never to be seen, who might leave a book in reach of a boy, but who would then disappear again without a word. It was nothing like my own, comfortable childhood and was heartbreaking in its coldness. A few words were spoken of a childish fancy that came true (he ran away with a gypsy band) and the places that followed—never one place for long. It seemed like he picked up skills like other men might reach down and pick up a piece of paper, but he could never pick up friends.

There were times when he would break off in the middle of a sentence, usually as a story started to turn truly upsetting, and declare, "I don't remember the rest." He would be silent for a moment, and then simply ask, "shall I sing for you, Mojgan?"

I could never refuse that, not with his whiskey brown eyes and brandywine voice.

It was almost impossible for me to fathom that he was just a few years older than I was. I, who had never left my village before seventeen. I felt like I had become a woman in the time since then, but even so, my life was a mere running stitch compared to Erik's tapestry. If only it had been a beautiful tapestry! I would have liked to have been of more comfort to him, but his losses and injuries were too great, even if the words he used were few. There was little I could say, so I listened. And listened, and listened more. And it seemed that there was some good that came from listening. He rarely left my company in the same raving mood he would sometimes start in.

We would speak of my life, as well. My tragedies were lighthearted in comparison to his happiest memories, but he gave them rapt attention. There were a few things we did not touch on even then: the harem for one. Feridoon for another.

We should not have spent so much time together, and in such a way. It was outside the bounds of propriety. (Though, let us be honest, winter in the woods is not the most comfortable place for any _real_ impropriety to occur.) But Erik existed as something quite separate from polite society. I don't think it ever occurred to him that the same rules that governed the lives of ordinary men should ever apply to him. As for me, I suppose I _knew_ better. But said grief had made me bold. It took me out of myself, and where I might have at one time been careful, I no longer cared. Another rash decision I must be thankful for.

I often wonder how much Erik remembered of the time we spent together in Mazandaran. In later years, he would mention it only in passing, eager as he was to forget the other goings-on of that time.

 _That's right, you like the cold,_ he would say. Or he would comment on the fact that I had learned to play piano, ignoring the fact that he had shown me the basics. Small things—and that was all. Anything or one connected to the greater events of the era like the Shah, the Sultana, even the palace—these became taboo subjects. Once spoken of, perhaps twice, and then never again.

I cannot say his reticence bothered me, for I certainly did not care to dwell on such things either.

But now I must—for how else will you learn the truth? If truth is what you are interested in. I have been writing these letters to you for months now, and I frankly do not know what it is that you want. Sometimes I think that I ought to prettify the past—gentrify, as it were, to make it more palatable to the genteel lady you have become.

But what would be the point?

Now for that winter, the specter that loomed large was the Sultana. With the Shah gone and the higher ranking ladies either following him or dispersing to their own estates, the Sultana ruled Mazandaran. 'Ruled' may not be the correct word. She did not have the political sway to influence the administration of the government, but she did have money and a certain charisma that allowed her to dictate fashion. And let us face a simple truth: evil is all around us. She was so strange, so unpredictable, so _malevolent_. Yes, it unnerved many, but it attracted others. Even Erik had mistakenly believed that he had found a kindred spirit in her, though really he had not. Erik was not _bad_ hearted, though he did bad things. But the Sultana—

I simply do not know. How can I claim to look into the heart of another person and say for sure if evil is entwined with their very being? Yet, there were times when I looked into her eyes and I could have sworn—both then in the moment and now after decades of reflection—that I was standing next to the Devil.

There were other things I saw, as well: blood and misery and casual cruelty that was simply _inhuman._ I came from a family of farmers. We had servants, slaves, and animals. I knew how to treat them and how _not_ to treat them. But how the Sultana dealt with those under her control…

Well, I suppose I will prettify the past a little for you. You do not need the nightmares.

No one needs those nightmares.

I'm glad Erik forgot as much as he did. He lived the nightmares more than I did. He created some of them, but I did not see most of _those._

Though, there was one nightmare of his creation that I _did_ happen to experience. It was another thing we pointedly did not speak of in later years.

I was about to write that I had stumbled into it, but I would hazard a guess that I was _pushed_ into it.

It was late winter. The solstice had passed and Erik was working wildly on his palace. It was magnificent—and it was nearly done. Of these two noteworthy elements, the latter was undoubtedly the most spectacular. Erik had revolutionized myriads of construction techniques. It was not a revolution by design. I think it was mostly instinct. Erik saw the world differently. He was aware of this, most of the time. But with mechanics and mathematics and the like, it never occurred to him that there _was_ another way to work. It came to him like breathing—no, like singing—and it was brilliant.

Even Erik's detractors were impressed.

How could they not be? I can still see the white marble spires standing above the sea, the blue tiles tracing elegant arches like a lover's finger, the glint of gold reflecting the weak winter sun back a thousand times over.

"The Shah won't know what to do with it," Erik once said, his voice free from bitterness. "He may have commissioned it, but I did not build it for him."

"Then who _did_ you build it for?" I asked.

"A dream," he said.

It was easy to believe. It certainly looked like a dream. But like all dreams, it had the seeds of a nightmare in it. One only needed the proper catalyst for the nightmare to sprout and thrive.

The seed was a room. The catalyst was a woman.

Erik and the Sultana had been going through one of their chilly periods, but she did come when she heard the palace was nearly done.

I was already there drinking tea with Nadir and Erik when she arrived.

"Well! You're already holding a proper court!" She said. She sounded—well, she sounded far saner than she usually did.

Erik was tense for some minutes, but he soon found his equilibrium. And for a strange moment in time, we all sat about in a biting sea breeze, chatting like friends. Only Nadir looked _troubled_ , though I suspect we all felt so. I know I did, but it was in a general way. I had spent much time in the Sultana's company. And while I cannot say I came away from that time _unscathed_ I had thus far been _unscarred._

So I did not think much of it when the Sultana asked me, in her girlchild voice, to walk the grounds with her. Nor did I think much of it when she asked me to keep her company for the rest of the day, or when she assured the Daroga that she would see me safely returned home later that evening.

So Nadir went off, worried but not fearful. Erik went about his business, leaving us in favor of looking over furniture. And I walked alongside the Sultana, anticipating a day of black humor.

And, oh, her humor _was_ black that day. As soon as our parties had separated, she dug into most every subject with unparalleled viciousness. I listened, but I did not laugh. I never laughed—that was one trick of flattery I could never master.

Evening came quickly and the Sultana's coterie prepared to depart. But we still walked, the two of us with some guards besides, following blueprints that Erik had given the Sultana to help her navigate the myriad hidden passages. We were nearly to the dining room where we had agreed to meet some of her other ladies, who were not so keen to skulk through narrow passages. Not that I had been particularly fond of the idea myself, but the Sultana had made in impossible for me to decline gracefully. I wish I could say I had felt some sense of foreboding, but that was not the case. I was much too busy trying to read Erik's cramped handwriting and keep up with the Sultana's incessant prattle.

We reached an intersection and I pointed the Sultana in the direction of the dining room. Just few steps, the release of a hidden latch, and then perhaps I could go home for the evening.

"I think he's grown very _fond_ of you," the Sultana said, standing still in the cramped corridor. She made the word sound foul. Two of her guards, one in front of us and one behind, held torches, and the smoke burned my eyes.

I did not really reply, merely urged her to head left.

"I want to see what lies in the _other_ direction," the Sultana said.

"It just says 'workroom' on the map."

She snapped her fingers. "Of course! It's Erik's workroom, you know."

I didn't know, but for I moment I rather hoped it _was._ Because she was right—Erik had grown a little fond of me. I had been kind to him—I _liked_ him—and it would take more than a fit of pique from the Sultana to break that. I hoped.

"I know you walk together," she continued, "and you _talk._ Oh, God, how you _talk._ "

Well, Erik may not have been inclined to hurt me, but I could not say the same for the woman next to me. I tried again to urge the Sultana in the direction of the dining room. But when I stepped past the Sultana, the head guard stopped me.

And I felt—

Well, not fear. It was a peculiar feeling, one of absolute certainty. I saw Feridoon at my feet, lifeless and bloody, and I _knew_ I was about to die. And for what? Crossing paths with a madman?

No, befriending a madman. I had always known, somewhere in the back of my mind, that if Erik was spending his time with Nadir and I then he was _not_ spending it with the Sultana.

 _You were the good in Persia and she was the bad, and where you met I became hopelessly muddled._ He said that once, one of his few direct statements about the Sultana in the decades after he left Persia. For Erik, it was always _either – or._ It had to be. He could never quite manage to reconcile shades of grey, though he was entirely drawn in them.

"You really should see Erik's workroom," the Sultana said, sounding to all the world like she was speaking of new fabrics or edible fancies. "It's splendid! Surely you've heard of it?" her voice dropped low and her veil crushed against my cheek. "It's full of _mirrors."_

Of course I had heard of the room of mirrors. Nadir had personally told me about it in a conversation that was part confession and part warning.

And foolish girl that I was, I rather discounted it—for it would never happen to me, now would it?

The guard opened the trapdoor, but the Sultana pushed me.

In the dark and silence, which seemed unending, I listened to my heartbeat. It said: _Erik will find you. Erik will find you. Erik will find you._

And I believed my heartbeat—until the lights turned on.

Well, in my heart of hearts, I had _hoped_ for some hero to force the sun to rise in my life again and dispel the myriad shadows around me.

I could have laughed at the irony, but I did not. Instead, I closed my eyes, reached for a wall, sat down once I found a corner, and waited.

Until next time, my dear, be well.

_Mojgan Banu Khanum_

Postscript: It was blue. Feridoon's old coat was peacock blue with gold and black trimming. And it is important, because it was beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really waffled on this one—originally, I intended to write this from Erik's POV, but it just wasn't coming together. So, Mojgan. We just need to trust that she has Erik figured out well enough to properly communicate his mindset.  
> …I'm seriously starting to rethink my preference for unreliable narrators.


	28. The Rescue

"Daroga?"

"I am getting too old for this," Nadir proclaimed, sleep-addled and muzzy. He could not have possibly articulated what _this_ was, but he knew it was waking him up and he did not wish to be awoken.

"Daroga?" Darius continued on valiantly, "I made tea, Daroga."

"The Shah should give out medals for that," Nadir mumbled.

"Daroga?" This time, the poor boy simply sounded confused.

Nadir forced his eyes open and sat up. "What is it, Darius?"

There was a pause as the boy tried to order his thoughts, which gave Nadir a good idea of how this story would start.

"I went this morning to Mojgan Banu's house to drop off the sour cherry preserves," he began.

"You mean, to see the kitchen girl," Nadir cut in, half-amused.

Darius's lips thinned in something suspiciously close to annoyance, rather than the anticipated embarrassment. Nadir found himself waking up more. "Yes, I saw Parastoo. She was in quite a state, and wanted me to speak with Mojgan's woman. Khadija then told me that the household was very worried, because their lady did not return home last night. They thought perhaps she had stayed here and the messenger was detained."

Nadir took a sip of tea, cutting off such pointless exclamations as _Mojgan is missing!_ or _I will kill Erik!_ "What did you say?"

"That I was personally unsure Mojgan Banu's whereabouts, but that I thought it likely you knew where she was."

"I do not," Nadir answered the unasked question. "What else?"

"I mentioned that I had last seen her in the company of the Sultana, and suggested that she might have stayed with the harem."

"And?"

Darius paused again. "The suggestion was roundly and loudly discounted by the kitchen staff."

"And the handmaiden?"

"Looked like she would be sick."

"Ah." Nadir took a moment, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. It did nothing to fend off his growing headache. He took the time to finish his tea, fatalistically sure in the knowledge that it would be the last quiet minute of the day. "Saddle the horses, Darius."

* * *

Somewhere between his front door and Nowshahr Palace, Nadir became the Daroga. The familial affection he felt for his dead cousin's wife cooled into a detached sense of curiosity. Simple, professional questions were easier to deal with than nagging personal concerns. In that spirit, he set about composing an outline of events, letting the strong and steady—but not frantic, never frantic— gait of his mare set his mental pace.

He had one (possibly, _probably_ ) missing woman.

He had seen the woman with his own eyes a little over sixteen hours previously, and it was quite likely he could find someone who had seen her more recently. Some harem guards had more loyalty to the institution of the palace than the women and would gladly speak to an imperially appointed Daroga. And if not one of them, then perhaps some worker of Erik's.

She had been over an hour's distance away from her home. Would she have gone without an escort? Oh, yes, and as Cousin Nadir he could not help but despair over that. He cursed how leniently he had viewed Mojgan's independent spirit. She had no business being out of the house without so much as a slave girl to attend her. He should have put a stop to that sort of behavior weeks ago—but that was neither here nor there. Business and facts: Mojgan, an hour or so away from home, alone.

It was a familiar route, and she rode well, but an accident might have occurred along the way. Or, an accident could have befallen her _before_ leaving Erik's construction site—

Or, it was entirely possible that he would find Mojgan at Nowshahr Palace, drinking morning tea with the Sultana.

He forced both trains of thoughts away. He had too little information to start making well-considered conjectures, after all. For a short while, he was able to maintain his equanimity.

 _That_ vanished soon after he arrived at the Palace. He left Darius to deal with the horses and set a brisk pace through the palace grounds. He nodded at personal acquaintances and colleagues, but did not halt until he reached the harem walls. He expected reticence. He expected polite taarof.

He did not expect to be turned away. It was a given that he would not be admitted to the inner courtyard—but that he would not be permitted a word at the outer-most gate was unexpected in the extreme.

For an instant, something like outrage overcame him. _By Imperial appointment, a_ _Chief Inspector of a major province—turned_ _away in the course of an investigation!_ But 'outrage' was not an emotion that sat naturally with Nadir, and it soon altered into a more reasonable sense of unease. He demanded to see the steward on duty.

He was first sent a junior officer of the harem, but Nadir quickly cut through his pretensions of officiousness. He sent away another such man, and another. Each attempt at diversion simply helped turn what had been a supposition into a conviction: something was being concealed.

At last he was presented with a man he knew, Shir Hosseini. A calm, reasonable man, but today his dark eyes shifted and darted. Nadir kept his own gaze fixed.

"There is no point in going in," Shir said. "They say you seek the widow of Feridoon Ali Jah, may God have mercy on his soul. She is not here."

Nadir believed _that._ "I seek those who last saw my cousin." He used the title to calculated effect. There were born eunuchs, and content eunuchs, and angry eunuchs—and then there were eunuchs like Shir, who had a paterfamilias soul and loved his siblings and cousins and their offspring like the dear children he would never have.

His eyes darted. "The Lady of the harem denies you entrance."

"I don't need entrance, I need audience," Nadir pressed. He added, "By _Lady_ , you mean the Sultana Soraya."

Shir looked shocked that Nadir had actually spoken the woman's name. He replied with a nod.

" _She_ is not a chief wife," Nadir said. "The Shah gave her no privilege of oversight." He could have gone on. She was young, foreign, and irresponsible—but it was best to let Shir think those things for himself.

"She has an evil eye." He said that with great finality, as if it explained everything.

"Then burn esfand," Nadir retorted. "I will speak with her."

Shir dithered. Shir faltered. But, ultimately, Shir would not yield.

Nadir sighed. If he could not convince Shir to admit him, on perfectly reasonable grounds…

Then he would lie.

Perhaps it was actually dissembling, in fine old courtly fashion. Perhaps it was simply giving misleading information. But untruth of all sorts was anathema to the Daroga, and so he felt obliged to acknowledge, if only to himself, that he was _lying._

He reached into his satchel, were he kept the official licenses and records he might need in the course of an investigation. With great deliberation, he pulled out a heavy letter, its seal first broken years previously.

Its message was simple. The Daroga of Mazandaran was to be allowed access to the outer courtyard of the harem in the course of his official duties and to speak with the women (provided that they were attired with full modesty.) It was signed and sealed by Naser al-Din.

There was nothing about the paper to indicate that it was a decade old order that it had been issued in regard to one specific case. That case had long since been put to rest, but the imperial order had been set kept with the rest of the Daroga's meticulously filed records. Some years previously, he thought of the vague wording of the Shah's fiat and kept it in reserve. He had often carried it on his person when engaged in one investigation or another. He had never used it.

Why he handed it over to Shir Hosseini now was almost beyond his understanding. He knew that he would have never dared use the letter if the Shah had been in residence. There were other lines of investigation still open to him. And even if there were not, why risk everything for Mojgan? It was a thought he examined even as Shir examined the paper.

But while Nadir could not come to a satisfactory conclusion, the eunuch had no choice but to accept the Shah's written words. He had a curious look on his face as he handed it back to Nadir—not quite disbelief, not quite resignation.

 _Be this on your own head,_ his dark eyes said.

And so it had to be, Nadir silently agreed. A man must carry his own burdens.

* * *

"You are impertinent," the Sultana declared, sitting on a mass of silk pillows and swaying from side to side. For some reason, Nadir had expected her to be _shrill_. She was a little harsh and a little maniacal, but her voice never peaked to the girlish high he had heard from her before. Maybe he was not her desired audience. "You have _no right!"_

Nadir swept into a low bow before her. "Madam, I come on official business."

"Madam? Madam? What am I? What am I that you call me _Madam?"_ Her little slippered foot, peeking out from her mass of robes, twitched. Perhaps she would have stomped it, had she been standing.

"Sultana, then," Nadir said. "Sultana, my questions are few and easy. Please answer them."

She glowered at him. "I have no answers for you, _Daroogha_."

What magic did this creature weave in the Shah's bed that she was allowed to stay? Nadir found himself glowering back at her. "Our paths crossed yesterday afternoon, Sultana. We parted, but you kept company with Mojgan Banu. When and where did you last see her?"

The Sultana shrugged. "Does it matter?"

It was so hard to know what to say the Sultana. She wore her veils like Erik wore his masks, and her moods were just as variable. One word might make her rail, another sew her lips shut. And who knew what word would have which effect? Something like giddiness overcame Nadir, a sense that he had already risked too much by invoking the Shah's outdated permission. What else could he lose now that he had not already lost? "Madam," he said, with great deliberation, "you are far from irreplaceable."

The Sultana stilled. Her eyes smoldered. "Do you threaten?" She laughed. "Oh, Daroga, do you threaten _me?_ "

"Yes," he said. Such a simple word, such a damning sentiment. What was _wrong_ with him?

The Sultana seemed not to mind. She laughed again. "Daroga. Daroogha. How can you threaten? What blade is at your disposal?" She paused, her eyes raking over Nadir's face. "If _he_ had to, who would _he_ choose? Do you think _he_ would choose you?"

" _He_ is not a material point here," Nadir said evenly. "Where is Mojgan?"

"Of course he is! How else can you threaten me, except with his hand? What a fool you are!" She laughed long and loud. "Will he side with the grumpy old man who says, _do this_ , _do not do that_? The one who holds him back, who shames him? He will not."

"And what makes you think he will side with you?" Nadir asked quietly. "You, who pushes him to desperation, to evil, who humiliates. What can you give him to offset this?"

She fluttered her eyelashes.

Nadir snorted. "Will you bed him, Lady? No, I can see that you would not. Will you rise him up as a prince? No, for it is not in your power. Will you love him, Sultana? No. Because, while Erik's heart is dark, yours is dead. Your charms will fade for him—and for the Shah. And then where will you be?"

The fluttering of her eyelashes changed into staccato, shocked blinking. "Yet, you say _stay_ and he goes. You say _create_ and he creates destruction. He never chooses you and he will _never_ choose _her."_ She rose to her feet and turned away. "Look in a _mirror_ , Daroogha, and see where _his_ loyalties lie."

The Daroga puzzled over her parting comment for brief moment. Then he ran.

* * *

He found Darius still near the stables, unusually unsociable.

"Take your mount," he commanded, "find Erik. Look everywhere. Do not stop searching until he is found or you receive word from me."

"And if I find him?" Darius asked, looking (surprisingly) undaunted.

"Send him to his construction site, to his workroom. Go!"

There was not time to tell Darius that Nadir hoped to find Erik already at the newly built palace—or did he? If Nadir was correct in interpreting the Sultana's words and he found Mojgan in that hell of mirrors, Erik might be the only way to save her. But if he was already there… could Nadir ever believe him ignorant?

Too little information. Too much conjecture. Nadir clenched his jaw and set a punishing pace for the seaside.

* * *

It was noon when he arrived at the seaside palace, but the sun was subdued by thick clouds. There were no workers in the main building and Nadir raced through them unimpeded.

He came to the large dining room, the sight of the Shah's show-stopping supper. Even across the massive space, Nadir could see what he was looking for. A sliver of light blazed at the edge of the large velvet curtain running along the back wall. It was too intense of a light to come from any _normal_ source.

He pushed aside the corner of the curtain and scanned the dizzying reflection-of-reflections in the torture chamber. The forest of metal trees baffled his eye, the light blinded him. He forced himself to look away for a moment, to calm his heart and to look again with a clinical eye.

 _There_. Perhaps she was in a corner. Perhaps she was in the center of the room. But that was certainly _Mojgan_ , a veil pulled over her face, slumped in the torture chamber.

Nadir pounded on the glass for a minute, but it did not give way. Nor did she stir. He ran the length of window, running his hands along the glass, looking for some purchase in the wall. He found none.

But there was at least one door he knew of, and he decided to waste no further time in using that one.

He wondered for a moment if Erik would be in his workshop. And, if not, what sort of booby traps might await him? But he did not let these concerns hold him back from forcing the door and seeking out the entrance to the mirrored room.

It was shockingly easy to open. Nadir paused before entering, trying to get his bearings.

He called out, "Mojgan?"

There was no reply and he stepped in. "Moj—"

The door swung shut suddenly and firmly. Nadir could hear a cascade of locks fall into place, and when he spun around he was confronted with what appeared to be unbroken mirror. He reached his hands out desperately and touched the glass. It burned with the retained heat of the bright lights. He blinked and turned again, keeping his palms flush with the wall.

A hundred Mojgans sat around him, veiled in ghostly white. After a beat, her back straightened and she lifted the veil from her face. Then a hundred Mojgans peered at a hundred Nadirs. She rose slowly to her feet, stumbled, and then leaned back.

"Can we get out?" She asked. Her voice was a whisper, but it carried and echoed. A mere second elapsed before she spoke again. "No, we can't. Can we?"

"I wish I had something better to tell you," Nadir spoke slowly, his head spinning with the mirror images. It was a lurid forest of steel trees and panicked faces, a scene right out of a nightmare. "But the door seemed to be weighted— it swung shut." And _locked._

"At least you walked through a door to get here." She half-dropped her veil again, and Nadir was confronted with the unpleasant truth that the panicked face was _his._

Nadir could clearly remember the sweat on the brow of the condemned man, that gleam of madness so common amongst men lost in desert dunes. Would that be him soon?

"Stay there," she whispered again. "Perhaps you can open the door?"

He wanted to say yes, but found himself shaking his head. He took a step away from the perimeter—a gross mistake. Any sense of equilibrium vanished in an instant.

The Mojgans stared at him with bloodshot eyes. He tried to walk towards her, but quickly lost the way.

He heard her sigh. "Close your eyes." She followed her own advice, and slumped a little again.

"Mojgan? Joonam?"

"Keep your eyes closed, and walk. You'll find a wall." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Eventually."

He first found the tree, which earned him a nasty bump on the head, but finally came up to the edge of the room. He worked around slowly, eyes still closed, until he came to Mojgan. He lowered himself to the floor without grace.

He shed his coat and pulled out a flask of cold tea. This he put into Mojgan's disturbingly weak hand.

He did not bother to warn her to drink slowly—she took a small sip, and then another.

"The light is getting brighter again." She commented. "It is about to become… very uncomfortable."

"How long?" Nadir asked after a moment.

"Does the light last? I don't know."

"No. How long have you been here?"

Another pause. She heard her take another drink. "I don't know. I slept. I slept until I thought I'd never wake. But wake I did. Again and again." She laughed briefly and then seemed to deflate. "Good night, Nadir. I'll tell Feridoon you came to call."

He wanted to stir her, to make her stay conscious and alert. But her breathing was unlabored, and after days and nights and days again, Nadir felt himself drifting away as well.

He floated above the sand dunes of his homeland, just as in his dreams. He wound his arm around the amber-eyed princess he had called his wife, and thought of his sons. His golden-eyed boy intruded on his thoughts more than once, pestering him with dissonant setars and tasteless jokes and his wild ways.

...At least Darius never gave them trouble.

True night came. The sounds of the metal jungle vanished, and all went dark. A voice called to him, melodious and furious.

"You idiot! You damn fool! Why didn't you get someone— _anyone_ — to accompany you!" Something cool and wet was thrust against Nadir's lips and he found himself opening his eyes.

It was dim, but he could make out Erik crouched before him.

"Mojgan?"

"With your errand boy."

"Alive?"

"Seven hells, yes! Drink—slowly, jackass!" Erik helped Nadir to his feet and supported him with one scrawny arm. He continued to curse, a multilingual tirade Nadir could only guess at.

At last, Nadir spoke to stem the flood of profanity. "This is not my fault."

"Isn't it? _Isn't it?_ " Erik sulked. "You should have told me."

"I did. I sent Darius." Nadir coughed, sputtered. He knew he should have stayed silent, but he could not. "If I had not come when I did, things might have gone worse. She was not well when I did find her. Would you have liked that? For her to die thanks to your folly and your mistress's wicked heart?" They exited into the main courtyard and Nadir was shocked to see stars.

Darius was sitting with Mojgan on a blanket. A hodgepodge of snacks was set before her, along with tea and water. Erik deposited Nadir next to her and left without a word.

The three of them sat in silence. Mojgan's eyes seemed sunken and Nadir finally noticed the rash of angry red across her face and hands. She ate and drank what Darius put into her hands—Nadir realized with a start that he was doing the same.

"A full day?" He asked quietly.

She shrugged. "No. Yes. Probably." She sipped her tea. "Does it matter?"

Perhaps it did not.

Erik reappeared with a cart from the construction area. Nadir and Darius's horses were hitched to the front, an inelegant but not terribly mismatched pair. The cart was obviously not designed for the conveyance of humans, but Erik had stuffed it to the brim with soft pillows and heaps of silk curtains. He alighted from it and said a quiet word in Darius's ear. The boy nodded and immediately went up into the driver's position.

Erik stood before them. He tensed like a trapped animal wishing to flee. But the moment passed and he bent to lift Mojgan up. She put one hand around his neck, and Nadir wondered at it. Surely she _knew_. She knew which tortured soul had conjured up the agonies she had just suffered. But that same tortured soul set her down gently in the cart and fluffed the pillows to best protect her from a bumpy ride. His hands shook, but Nadir had no desire to comfort him. Let him feel the weight of his wretched creation.

Nadir struggled to his feet and approached. Before he hoisted himself onto the driver's bench next to Darius, he shook out his coat and laid it over Mojgan. He caught the girl's hand—she wasn't more than a girl, now was she?—and clutched it. His throat was still parched and sore and his voice cracked when he whispered, "I love you."

The words shocked him even as he said them. He could feel Erik's yellow gaze locked on him. Mojgan smiled slightly.

"And I love you, cousin."

It was only later, after Erik had vanished into the night, after Darius delivered Mojgan to the care of her maid servants, and after Nadir had been placed in his own bed, that he realized that they had used different words. Mojgan had said _doost_ , which was a very proper love to have for one's family and friends. But Nadir…

Affection, he had claimed, affection and _tenderness._ Not romance, of course. That was another word all together. But for the first time in a long, long time he _cared._ He desired to protect her solely because he held her in affection, not because it was his duty.

Nadir forced himself to admit that he might have used the same word and applied it to Erik as well.

His house was quiet, and dark, and empty.

But his heart was not. He slept.

* * *

There were no longer guards at the old ugly house. Their absence should not have surprised Erik. After all, they had been assigned to Feridoon, not Feridoon's little wife.

He kept a firm grip on the alabaster jar, and would have off-loaded it into the hands of some servant had one come. But there was no answer to his knock, and it was with chilled blood and a turning stomach that he let himself into the house.

It was the same quiet house he had had visited so many times before—the same soft light filtering in through fluttering curtains, the same scent of jasmine hiding in every corner—but it was not quite the _same._ Perhaps this was the difference between _house_ and _home_. This was a building without a soul, a body without a heartbeat.

Erik did not, could not, like it.

He finally found her in the walled garden, sitting in the shade and looking out at the rose bushes. Her cheeks were red—her hands redder still. It was concerning, but less so than the hard set of her lips, the pained-pinch around her eyes. And we she turned and saw Erik—

Well, she smiled. She smiled kindly and politely and ever so _wearily._

He thrust the jar into her hands without comment.

She glanced at it and then looked back at Erik. Her eyes should have been accusatory. She should have been _angry._ Instead, she looked _amused_. Tired, but amused. She opened the jar and took an experimental sniff.

"Camphor?" she asked. Even her tone was amused; not mocking, but mild.

It was also terribly unnerving. Erik shrugged as a reply. The jar contained everything that had more-or-less worked for the heat rash he had acquired in testing out the torture chamber, muddled together and hopefully harmless.

"Thank you," she said.

What a _horrible_ phrase, Erik thought. What a profane, disingenuous sentiment. In light of all that had happened, of all of the pain that Erik had caused her both directly and indirectly, she _could not_ mean to thank him—not even for something as simple as a healing balm.

Without another word, he fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nadir's character went all kinds of unexpected places in this chapter. Hopefully, not too far off course.


	29. The Man

A good man would have made an effort to change. He would not merely regret his missteps, but repent of them and try to do better, to _be_ better. An ordinary man would have simply been paralyzed into inaction, afraid of making another false step.

As for an evil man... Erik supposed that an evil man would continue in his evil ways gleefully, savoring each wicked deed and remembering such actions fondly.

What, then, was Erik? Erik, who sat staring at the head of Shir Hosseini desperately trying to recall having removed it from its body. He was sure that he _had_. The cut looked like something he would do. There was an element of finesse, of artistic vision that he could recognize in spite of the sick feeling that had settled deep in his stomach. And if that was not enough to convince him, there was also the dried blood underneath his fingernails.

Yes, Erik had certainly killed the eunuch. But when? (Last night, the waxy, rictus cheek proclaimed.) And _why?_ (The Sultana, his traitorous, all-a-blank memory supplied.)

He reached out and then paused, his hand just short of the dead man's face. He remained frozen for a moment, processing some vague thought on the irony of dead men being allowed to have faces, even if they did not possess a body. The moment passed and he pushed the eyelids down.

The Daroga would surely have something to say about this.

He could picture him easily. He could imagine him standing at the door to Erik's workshop (didn't Hosseini reside at the Nowshar Palace? How did Erik end up with him here and where, _where_ was the rest of him?) The Daroga would look between Erik's mask and the corpse's face for a deceptively short period of time. Then his bland Imperial Officer expression would alter into a look Erik was well acquainted with. There would be the bemused set of his lip, the ashen cast of his cheek, the hard spark in his eyes. They were small things, really. Little quirks, barely noticeable to the casual observer, but Erik had learned to read him well.

Who would have imagined such a thing, back when Erik first met him in Nijni Novgorod? Then, the Daroga had looked every inch the bored, stuffy Imperial envoy and Erik would not have been able to discern where the mask ended and the man began. He could have observed frustration in the Daroga, annoyance, maybe even anger at having been sent on an errand so beneath his dignity. But that awful disappointment, that gutting look of betrayal—as if Erik had cut off the Daroga's own head and not some palace servant's!—no, Erik would not have been the recipient of such looks _then._

But now?

There would be disappointment written in all his looks, but no mercy. He had made it very clear a very long time ago that there could be no mercy.

… _if_ he found out.

Erik heard laughter and realized it was his own. He stopped short, chastised himself for the impropriety of it all, and arose to scrub away the blood. He was really _quite_ done with Persia, he told himself. It was entirely too hot in the summer and too depressing in the winter and too filled with brown-eyed women. And his kingdom-by-the-sea—construction workers had given way to artisans who would soon give way to courtiers.

And then where would Erik be? This was his kingdom, his castle, but it wouldn't be his court to fill its halls. He could haunt his hidden passageways and sneak in the shadows, as he always had. But he could he stand to do so _here_? Could he stand to be exiled into the darkness, if the darkness was of his own invention?

He had thought of commandeering the new palace for himself, of living in its main suites and filling its harem with his own mass of veiled beauties. But he was not mad enough to confuse _that_ dream with reality. The Shah had commissioned the palace—he would live in it when the fancy struck him, fill its halls with his treasures both material and mortal, and never really care about it or its architect.

It was a point of cold consolation that Erik's palace would outlast Naser al-Din. It would outlast Erik, too, he supposed. Perhaps that fact lifted the project from being the caprice of a king or the vanity of a madman and made it something better, something worthwhile.

He found himself at the Daroga's house through no fault of his own. It was perhaps habit—or was he trying to dispel any shadow of guilt that might color his actions? What better alibi than the company of the man who might arrest you? Erik pushed that thought away even as he pushed the door to the courtyard open.

The house was uncharacteristically bright-looking. The windows had been thrown open, their draperies fluttering out into the courtyard like so many forward women. There was the bustle of housekeeping coming from all corners. In the middle of it all was not Nadir, but Mojgan. She was sitting cross-legged in the parlor with a half-strung setar across her lap.

"Hello, Erik," she said, as if his sudden appearance didn't bother her. "Nadir isn't here right now, though I would think he'd be back shortly. Would you like tea? Khadija, would you get more tea, please?" When Erik didn't move further into the room, she set the setar aside and looked at him sharply. "Are we going to pretend that we've never spoken before?"

A minute passed and she was still staring at him. He cleared his throat. "If you'd like."

"No, I would not like that," she said. She had a length of catgut in her hand—something that struck Erik as very _wrong_ until she started winding it onto the setar. "Shall I say _please?_ Please come in, please sit down, please have some tea."

Erik obeyed with some good grace and sat on the settee near Mojgan. She tested out her new string. It was a decent starting point, but not quite in tune. Erik wordlessly held out his hand for the instrument. It was a bad idea, for as soon as Mojgan handed it over she set her undivided attention upon Erik.

"I haven't seen you in weeks," she said.

He focused on the catgut, tuning until his ear was pleased. "Did you want to see Erik? I would not have thought so, considering what happened the last time."

"The last time I saw you, you ran out of my house like I had set dogs on you," she pointed out. "That salve worked well, by the way." She turned to profile and tapped her nose. "Look—not even a freckle to show for it."

"That's good," Erik murmured. "At least that's good."

"Erik," she said, with a hint of censure, "come, let us be friends." She did not extend her hand—no good Persian woman would offer her hand to a man unrelated to her—but her eyes were welcoming.

"I—" Erik could hardly believe his own voice, when he replied with a simple, "yes."

There was silence for a while, as Mojgan served tea and Erik compared the loose pieces of catgut for the last string.

"There has been talk of you in the neighborhood recently," she said. "And it hasn't been good."

"I did not know that was a _recent_ development," Erik replied.

She laughed a little. "Well, perhaps not. But it this is _different._ There has been talk that you will be leaving soon. That you are bored."

"I hardly see how that would rate as good gossip. Would it matter one way or the other?"

"Are you thinking of going home?"

Erik puzzled over her tone. It didn't sound like simple curiosity. Was it concern? Accusation? Hope? "Well, if you open an atlas, I'll throw a pin at it. Perhaps I'll go where it sticks and call that home."

"Then you are leaving."

Still that tone—something like loss, something like sadness. "I'd be a fool to leave," Erik said at last. "The Shah pays me too much."

"That is not a denial," She smiled a dry smile, more biting than brilliant. "But I cannot blame you. I've thought of leaving, as well."

He stopped work on the setar for a moment, utterly appalled. "Absolutely not!"

The smile turned into a laugh. "How like a man you are! Even Nadir had the decency to bite his tongue when I brought up the possibility. He just glared at me."

"Where would you go?" He gave the strings a final testing strum before handing the instrument back to Mojgan.

"That _is_ the question, isn't it?" It was a question she didn't answer. Her attention was back on the setar. She started a song, a simple folk melody that she played with more soul than technical finesse. Though at least Erik didn't feel like his ears were bleeding. She stopped abruptly in the middle with a nod. "Yes, that does sound better. Thank you."

"You have family," Erik pointed out.

"Yes, I do. And I _should_ go back to them. It would be right. It would be proper."

"Then why not?"

"Why do you not return to Europe?" she countered. "If you _are_ bored and you _do_ want to leave— why not go back there?"

Erik pushed off the settee and walked the perimeter of the room. Why wouldn't she turn away? Why did she insist on watching him pace? "Why don't you answer the questions put to you?"

"Why don't you?" At least she turned away then, choosing to look over Erik's handiwork with the strings rather than Erik himself. "I have clearly been spending too much time with _the Daroga._ I was never in the habit of investigation and interrogation before."

Erik could not help but be grateful for the change of subject. "And where is the Daroga today? He is being a very poor host to his pretty little cousin."

"I confess I am here in the role of housekeeper, not cousin," she said. "He has some business to conduct with his colleagues and wanted to stage a supper for them. Since his steward, er, moved on, he asked me to oversee the servants for the day and direct the preparations."

"That does sound like him—work given as a token of friendship."

"I don't mind. I've felt useless enough for the past few months."

Before Erik had a chance to make any sort of reply—or redirection—a kitchen slave came in to fetch Mojgan. She excused herself, promising a quick return, and left Erik to his own devices.

He took the opportunity to drink his tea. It was obviously Darius's special blend, deeply spiced with cardamom and with the telltale golden gleam of saffron. But Mojgan had brewed it dark and strong in rose water and served it already sweetened. It was the smell and taste of the harem, Erik decided. No, not _the_ harem, where the Shah played and _she_ ruled. It was the ordinary harem, the private rooms and private lives of forcibly commonplace men and innately extraordinary women. To Erik, it seemed to be part way between the scent of home and the perfume of fantasy—perhaps the fantasy of a home?

There was a new bustle outside of the house, shortly followed by the Daroga. The little fear that had crouched at the back of Erik's skull for the entire morning retreated somewhat. The Daroga seemed no more hostile than usual. If anything, he was looking at Erik with a little _less_ suspicion than was his custom. "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting a friend, of course," Erik held up his half-empty tea cup.

"Visiting or pestering?"

"Visiting. I only pester _you_ , not Mojgan."

The Daroga sniffed, but said nothing. He took a seat across from Erik and _stared._

Erik stared back. On a whim, he threw his voice into the teapot. " _Oh, dear, why hasn't Darius—"_

"Don't," the Daroga grumbled, "I'm not in the mood to humor you today."

"Are you _ever_?" Erik asked. "Well, I hear that you are obliged to conduct _business_ tonight. I don't blame you for your ill humor. I am glad that I needn't have much to do with building the palace anymore—Persian _business_ was sucking my soul out."

"You are glad the project is nearly over?" He _still_ stared at Erik, just as Mojgan had stared at him. "Truly? You won't be bored?"

"I am always bored," Erik pointed out, "it is the curse of genius."

"Is it?" the Daroga's tone was utterly flat. "I had no idea."

"I wouldn't expect you to. Do you need any entertainment for your little party? I could sing, Mojgan could dance—no?" Erik always thought it peculiar that people thought that _he_ had an evil eye. The Daroga was surely the master of it.

"And why do you want to eavesdrop on my colleagues? I am sure you already know all about the topic of the hour."

"Do I?"

Another sniff, God damn him. "I should think so." There was a pause when Darius reappeared with fresh tea for his master. Nadir looked much more content once he had a glass in hand. "It isn't as though his return doesn't concern you."

"You know, you don't tease well," Erik decided that a huff would properly meet the Daroga's sniffs. "I will not _ask_ you, since you plainly do not wish to tell me."

"I told you, I have no desire to play at your games…" the Daroga trailed off thoughtfully. He set down his tea, smoothed his mustache. "Erik. You _know_ that Shah is returning to Mazandaran."

"The Shah is always coming and going," Erik replied. "What does it matter to me?"

The Daroga leaned back, his countenance closed and wary. "Need I remind you that you are here at the Shah's pleasure? Rather, his sufferance! He is coming in no small part to see your palace—and someone should have informed you. The fact that no one did… cannot you not see what that might signify?"

The possibilities were manifold, Erik privately conceded, and few were pleasant. But outwardly, he remained in his hunched repose and glowered at the Daroga. "You are paranoid."

"And you are a fool," the Daroga sighed. "What has happened to you? A year ago, this would have sent you into a flying rage and a whorl of conspiracy. Now, you sit and call _me_ paranoid." After a moment, his voice altered and Erik nearly groaned. God, but spare him Nadir the Caring and Nadir the Earnest. But, no… "You cannot be seen to lose your bite, Erik."

That surprised Erik into a laugh. "I never thought to hear those words fall from your lips! If I were, in fact, to become a domesticated animal, I would have thought you happy."

"I would be. But not at the expense of your life," the Daroga paused broodingly, and generally seemed very discontented with his lot in life for the space of half a minute. "After all, I can never forget that the Shah glued my destiny to yours." He sipped his tea, his face more naked than Erik had ever seen before. "Cruel bastard."

* * *

It was not entirely true that Erik avoided his Imperial master when the Shah finally did amble into Mazandaran. It was merely a matter of not seeking him out. He did not bother going to Court. He did not bother going to his construction site when he knew the Shah would be there- and the Shah was there surprisingly frequently.

Apparently, he had decided to do a complete inspection himself. He went into every room, looked at every surface, and questioned every under contractor he ran across. He never expressed approval or disapproval. He merely came every few days to wander and search. Not a single fountain fixture escaped his perusal.

He never once asked for Erik.

A full two weeks passed before that summons came.

Erik put on his best coat, his blandest mask, and his most marked swagger. He suspected that the effect was rather lost on the Shah, who looked at Erik with abstracted eyes when he bothered to look at all.

"I find myself most pleased with the progress on the palace," the Shah said. "The caliber of your work is on par with the greatest geniuses of our land."

Erik made no comment, but the Shah did not seem to need it.

"…indeed, it will stand as a unique homage to the splendor of the house of Qajar for generations upon generations…"

Had he always pontificated so much? Or had Erik simply lost his tolerance for it?

"…it begs the question, 'how can such genius be put to further use?' I have given the matter much thought…"

He outlined so many projects: art in stone and flesh, in plaster and blood, in wood and soul. He promised—without ever _really_ promising—unimagined riches and great power. In a blink of an eye, he might have the world.

But the world, as outlined by Naser al-Din, seemed curiously dull. It was full of false hopes and half-realized dreams.

And it could vanish, in the blink of an eye.

But he had not lied to Mojgan. He would be a fool to leave the Shah's service. He was too well-paid, and commanded respect beyond his wildest dreams.

_Have you thought, perhaps, to dream bigger?_

The Shah finally asked a direct question, one that was owed a direct answer.

"No," was the answer Erik gave.

The Shah's brows pulled together. His mustachios pulled down. "No?"

"I have no interest in taking on another project right now," Erik said.

"And what do you intend on doing, hm?"

Ah, that was question that Erik had less of an answer for. He shrugged.

The Shah scowled. "Where do you intend to go?"

"Nowhere," Erik replied. _For the moment, at least._

"Hm."

There was an uneasy silence. Erik found himself eying the guards with a new wariness. But they held their places, the Shah never once looked at them.

"But, you will, of course, still attend me when I call," the Shah smiled anemically, "my guests are seldom so… entertained."

"Of course," Erik said.

"Of course. Hm." He inclined his head slightly, a dismissal without flourish. Or courtesy, Erik noted.

Erik bowed and started backed away.

"Oh, Erik? I would hope you would stay close by for the time being—I am sure I will have need of you before I leave for Tehran."

Erik knew a threat when he heard it, but he paid it no mind. He bowed again, and departed the audience chamber.

The world—well, the world may not have been bright. It may not have been any more promising or kind than it had been that morning. But it was a free world, and Erik delighted in that.

"Jadugar Agha," a voice called from the shadows. One of the eunuchs appeared from a side hall, "you are asked for in the harem."

Erik stopped dead. He wavered, as if two physical forces wanted to drag him in opposite directions and neither could overpower the other. One pulled him toward laughing dark eyes and the alluring power of danger. The other destination was one of comfortable discomfort, of familiar aloneness.

The eunuch noticed the hesitation, "the Sultana—"

"I know," Erik growled. "I know."

The lesser of two evils, then. He took a step forward, and then another, and went home.


	30. The Choice

Darius was the only one at the Daroga's, and even he was in the process of leaving. He was at front of the house, saddling his horse, with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

"The Daroga is at the Lady Mojgan's house," he told Erik without preamble.

"And you were not needed? Alas, poor Daryush!"

Darius was caught between a bashful blush and a scowl quite unbecoming in a servant. "I am to take my master's reports to the palace offices."

Erik felt like gloating. He had no man to call 'master' now, and it was a wonderful thing. But Darius had already pulled himself up into the saddle.

"The Daroga has business in the city this afternoon. If you need to speak with him, it would be best to meet him now."

Erik almost decided to go to his own apartments or to go out into the town, but he ultimately found himself standing outside of Mojgan's home. The late winter sun had finally conquered the morning gloom. It cast soft shadows in the courtyard and glittered in the bowl of the fountain. And there— Mojgan laughed, and after a moment, the Daroga joined in.

It was almost enough to make him turn back, as if their laughter was a warning for him not to trespass. All of his gleeful expectations of telling the Daroga about his interview dissipated. He had figured that Nadir would be very perturbed. The potential for Erik to tease him would be endless and he _had_ been looking forward to it. It seemed like a hollow pleasure now, when compared with that laughter.

Well, if he could face the Shah of Persia, the very pivot of the universe, he could certainly face one middle-aged man and one young woman.

"I see you found Darius," the Daroga said upon Erik's admittance to the parlor. "I should have told him to play dumb concerning my whereabouts."

"Be nice, Nadir," Mojgan said. "Now Erik, you look like you're about to jump out of your skin with excitement. Do I want to know why?"

"No," said the Daroga.

"Yes," said Erik. Mojgan, at least, would be happy for him. She would not give way to lecture after lecture. And so, for her benefit, Erik spun a wonderful tale of his encounter with the Shah. He mimicked the Shah, with his faint, womanish voice growing ever shriller. He perhaps overplayed his own bravado role a bit—Mojgan didn't laugh the way he expected her to. She glanced aside at the Daroga several times before her face settled into of a look of pinched worry.

The Daroga broke the silence that followed. "I hope all goes well."

Irritation clawed at Erik. Indeed, Erik would have rather liked to claw at Nadir in turn. "Do you think I am an idiot? I can manage my affairs."

"You've set your face against the greatest power in the land," the Daroga pressed on, pig-headed as ever. "He has accepted it for the moment—but I know the Shah. A moment is all it will be. He may try flattery and cajolery, at first. Bribery. But even if you accept, he will not forget this. He will not forget that you have refused him, which undoubtedly seems to him like a betrayal. And Naser al-Din has not survived this long by forgetting his betrayers."

"And _what_ , pray, do you think will happen?" Erik asked. "Am I not the one they call Angel of Death, here? Am I not the one that is looked askance at for every bump in the night? When the Shah wants his hands to stay unsoiled, isn't 'Erik' the one he calls for?"

"All the more reason to be afraid. How do you think he will like losing that? And you know as well as I do that yours is not the only hand to hold a blade."

Erik smiled grimly under his mask. "Well, at least you admit I am not the only monster in Persia."

Nadir snorted. "No. Everyone is fungible. Even monsters. Policemen, too."

"And now we know the reason for your concern," Erik shot back.

"Believe what you will," said the Daroga before falling into a dark silence.

Erik fidgeted for a moment before coming to his feet. He walked over to the latticed window overlooking the garden and nudged the curtain out of the way. He had first seen Mojgan out in that garden. She had been a laughing new bride with an ugly old groom. Erik had been drunk on the first few months of his real power in Persia. That was not so long ago—two years, or so. But it might as well have been a decade ago, or a century.

"What do you say, _Mojgan?_ " He asked now, hurling out her name with the same irreverent disregard he had that first time. Why had that been, anyway? Oh, yes. To provoke Feridoon. Never mind years. That was a _world_ away.

Mojgan didn't seem to notice his biting tone now any more than she did back then. "I know that the Shah is a man, like any other man," she said. "He has a sallow face and careless eyes. But in my bones, I also know he is the lord and master over the land of my birth. And I fear him as I fear God." She paused. "More so, actually. Because I think God forgives and the Shah probably does not."

Erik took advantage of having his back turned on the others. He shifted his mask and rubbed at his eyes. Then he sighed, righted himself, and turned back. "Well, then. What shall I do?"

The Daroga offered a half-shrug. "Placate the Shah. Offer him something valuable as a gift, a token of your regard and friendship. And be sure to do so soon, before he takes any action against you."

" _That's_ what you suggest?" Erik scoffed. "Bribery?"

"It's a language he speaks well," Mojgan said, her smile ironical and eyes faraway.

Erik seated himself again. "Well. I shall take your advice."

The Daroga gave a sharp laugh. "Will you indeed?"

"I will. I am not stupid," Erik accept a refreshed teacup from Mojgan, "I'm _not._ "

The silence was companionable enough, though the worry did not leave Mojgan's brow or the anger Nadir's eyes for quite some time. Erik considered the Daroga's advice, turning it over in his mind and examining all of its angles and implications. He had, _perhaps_ , acted rashly that morning. (Could one be both _right_ and _rash_?) But if a valuable peace offering was needed, then, well! They didn't think Erik a conjuror for nothing.

These thoughts, as well as the fragile return of equanimity to the room, were dashed away when the sound of a horse and rider thundered into the courtyard.

Not a minute later, Darius flailed into the room in a way that might have been comical, if the look in his eyes had not been so utterly serious. He looked first at the Daroga, then at Mojgan, and finally spent a protracted moment— far longer than he usually would have— looking at Erik.

"An envoy is coming," he said, his eyes still dancing between the three of them, "for Mojgan Banu. From the harem."

Mojgan set her teacup down and gave Darius one of her kind, mild smiles. But the worry was still clouding her expression and the smile was unusually worn. "And what makes this so unusual?"

"The Sultana wishes you to attend her," he replied, "Lady, if you go, you will not return."

"Is that so?" she asked. She looked at Erik, but before he could formulate a reply, Darius spoke.

"It is."

"Have you been asked there since…" the Daroga trailed off with a significant glance at Erik.

"No," she admitted. "But with Shah back in residence, I hardly think she'll try to push me into another torture chamber."

"The Sultana asked for me today," Erik said. "Directly after my audience with the Shah."

"And you came here instead?" she asked. Erik nodded.

The Daroga held his head for a moment, sputtering something that sounded like a prayer. Or perhaps a curse. "She will be furious. _Furious._ And she already despises you, Mojgan."

Mojgan was quiet and rubbed her hands together, as if to ward off a chill. She turned to look at Nadir and then at Erik. It took Erik at moment to realize that the pursed lips and drawn eyebrows were not caused by the same worry that had been there all afternoon. Nor was it annoyance or melancholy or any of the other emotions he had seen play out on Mojgan's face before. It was an awful fear, like the half-dead eyes of a man caught in his lasso. It was fear, and she was looking at him as if he could _do_ something about it. "I cannot _refuse_ a summons from the Sultana."

"I did," he pointed out. _And look at where it has gotten us._ Yes, a man could most certainly be both right and rash.

"What if you went with me?"

"To the _harem?"_ Erik was surprised into exclaiming.

"Well, yes. Surely she wouldn't outright harm me, then. What I mean is, I rather think you could protect me." She cut herself off with a wave of her hand. "But the Shah—going to the Shah's palace—"

It was times like these that Erik was reminded that his favorite little widow, so self-composed and self-contained, was so very _young._ To look to _him_ for help! And in a matter dealing with the Sultana! Though, in fairness, Mojgan was more than likely in this position thanks to Erik.

The Daroga spared him from answering. "I cannot help but think that would exacerbate the situation." He could have stopped there. He _should_ have stopped there, in Erik's opinion. But, no. The Daroga continued. "And never minding the Shah, I do not think Erik would be much of a protection for you anyway. God in heaven knows what _she_ could make him do."

Mojgan started to tsk, but she stopped and then stared at Erik.

_Well, Madame, what's my worth? You certainly weigh me carefully enough._

"To refuse is damnation. And to agree is no better," her voice was quiet and her piercing gaze softened. She looked through Erik now, not at him. He could not decide which was more unnerving. "Is the only salvation that of being allowed to choose the manner and means of one's damnation?"

"The guards are coming here," Darius cut in, "if the Daroga would consent to remove the Lady to his home, it would buy time."

"They can hardly force her out of the Provincial Police Chief's home," the Daroga agreed. He was on his feet in an instant. "The back roads, then, and quickly. Mojgan, who of your staff do you most trust?"

"I trust Khadija entirely, and the house manager," she replied without hesitation. "Feridoon said I might rely on him in anything."

"I will speak with him. Tell your woman to stay out of sight completely. I may call on her later, but not yet. Go, gather what you most need. Five minutes, no more. Darius, prepare horses. And Erik—" Nadir didn't bother finishing his sentence. He merely waved Erik away and strode off. Mojgan departed as well, looking grim but determined.

Erik made to followed her but thought the better of it. He went outside with Darius instead.

Darius was tackling his assignment with startling single-mindedness. Erik considered him, and his part in the afternoon's business.

"When did you become so competent, Errand Boy?" he asked.

Darius nearly dropped the harness in his hands, and a mad blush overtook him. He didn't look at Erik. "I do my best. Agha."

* * *

They made for a dour dinner party. Everyone picked at their rice and fesenjan, speaking in the rushed hush of the condemned.

The Daroga had dealt with the harem servants rather untactfully when they finally arrived at his house. Erik had watched from the shadows as Nadir had played every inch the nobleman, as well as the Daroga. Did they have any right to bother him? No, they did not. His cousin had visited him this morning, looking pale, and had taken sick—not that it was _any_ business of _theirs._ Did they have the right to bother his ailing cousin? No, they did not. Would there be consequences if they decided to press the issue? Yes. Yes, there certainly would be.

Erik had offered a more permanent way of dealing with the troublesome men, but the Daroga had strictly charged him to stay out of sight.

Later, when they sat to eat, he explained why. "You have doubtless incurred the Shah's displeasure. How that will play out is unforeseeable. You need to carry on as we spoke of. We cannot give him any more reason to distrust you. We will all suffer for it."

"So, you remove yourself from my company," Erik commented. "Darius is of more use to you than I am."

"Do not mope," Nadir said sharply, pointing at Erik with an uncommonly emphatic finger. "If you have any suggestions, I will listen to them. But as to Mojgan's safety—"

"You are at a loss," Erik said. He did not mean it as an accusation, but the Daroga clearly took it as one.

"I am not too proud to admit that I am at an impasse," he said, "how can I blame you for refusing—for once!—that hellcat? But how can I fight against the _harem?_ My jurisdiction barely touches its outer walls. And what if the Shah decides to take an interest in this, even outside of his dealings with you? What if _Mahdeh Olia_ does? She tolerates nothing that undermines the power of the women's quarter, even if it's a caprice of the Sultana."

Mojgan had been mostly silent since they fled her homely little house. She had brought two small valises with her. Erik did not know the exact contents of them, but he could guess at one. It was a case that he had seen Feridoon had use for his accounting, neatly filled with important papers and a significant amount of hard cash.

It was not something one took on a short visit.

She let Nadir and Erik chatter on, round and round again, until tea was served. Only Erik partook of the honey-sweet bamieh. Mojgan didn't even touch her teacup.

"I should leave," she said.

What was it that Erik had said just weeks earlier? _Absolutely not. Absolutely do not leave Mazandaran. Friendly faces are few and far between—what shall I do without yours?_ But he could not say that now—not when he knew the Sultana like he did.

The Daroga held his peace, as well. As the silence continued, Mojgan's face became ever more set.

"I would rather go to the house in Tehran and keep my independence," she said, "but I suspect that would be unwise."

"Yes," the Daroga said simply. His face was impassive, but his eyes were broken.

"So, then, back to my sisters," she continued. "The Sultana never even cared to find out where I was from. Beyond the fact that I was raised on a farm, of course."

No one laughed, though her tone had been humorous.

"It could be arranged quietly enough—and quickly." the Daroga said. "But as long as the Sultana lives in power, you should not come back."

"I know," she said simply. "Make the arrangements." She smiled warmly at Nadir, and then at silent Erik. A little spark had come up into her eyes, a twinkle in the dark. "I will not live my life in fear. I _will not._ "

Erik thought on her words for many hours after the house had gone to bed and he had slipped out to attend to his own business.

Life was fear, and fear was life—and how, exactly, did one choose to separate the one from the other?


	31. The Pivot of the Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting all three of the last chapters of 'Part I' today, as some family business came up that will require my attention for the rest of the week. Hopefully, I'll be starting in on Part II next Monday- but at least you'll have a complete story for now!

Nadir nursed a water pipe well into the night, silent and dazed-looking. An amateur in the field of crisis might have been well and truly dazed, he thought, given the day's tumult of events. Darius had looked more than a little overcome when Nadir dismissed him for the night. He had acquitted himself admirably that day, but the stress had taken its toll. Even Erik had been uncharacteristically compliant, agreeing to stay away from Nadir and Mojgan until his own situation was dealt with. And dealt with it would be, Nadir was sure. He could see gears grinding behind those uncanny yellow eyes.

Well, Erik could attend to his own plots.

Erik may have been a genius, after all, but Nadir was a _professional._

He spent the night meditating on Mojgan's situation and the course of action they had decided upon.

If they travelled light and rode hard, she could be home in four, five days. But that was impractical on several accounts. While he had no doubt that Mojgan would rise to the occasion, it was unrealistic to expect her to leave everything behind and ride like a solider.

And an immediate departure was out of the question—the Sultana was too angry, her men too vigilant. They would more than likely be overtaken before leaving Nowshahr. Better to play on the idea that Mojgan was ill, to let the Sultana's men become bored and complacent.

There was also the question of an escort. Nadir could hardly take her himself, though he would have under other circumstances. He trusted Darius, but he was known in many circles and his absence might give rise to as much suspicion as Nadir's would. There was Erik—but, _no._ None of her servants would do. A trusted deputy could be engaged, though Nadir imagined that could be construed as an abuse of his position.

No matter. He had already hedged his bets.

He worked methodically, making plans and contingency plans. He mapped routes and estimated supplies. By sunrise, he knew what he could do and when he could do it. It was now a matter of keeping safe until the right opportunity to implement his work would arise.

It had been pleasant, he thought, to have had something like a family around again. But all earthly pleasures were temporary, and this one had run its course.

The charcoal in his pipe burned out, and Nadir went to bed.

* * *

In a show of bravado he did not feel, Nadir left early the next morning. Darius stayed behind, armed with a bizarre array of weaponry that he had dug out of the storeroom.

"Don't you dare answer the door with that rifle in view," Nadir said. "We cannot show our fear."

Darius had merely nodded and seen Nadir to the door.

Nadir made his usual rounds in the city, asking for personal reports from a number of the inspectors and deputies under his jurisdiction.

"Bring them to my house when you can," he said. It was not an unusual request and with the New Year rapidly approaching, no one thought it peculiar that the Daroga wanted his records updated and in good order.

This led to a stream of well-trained, well-armed officers of the peace appearing at Nadir's house at frequent and rather unpredictable intervals for several days. It was as good as a garrison for keeping the Sultana's tigerish men off of his doorstep and confirmed one of Nadir's dearly held hopes—that it was just the Sultana out to attack, and she did not have the support of other key players at the palace. Yet.

When a palace messenger did come early one morning, it was not from or about the harem.

"His Imperial Majesty commands me to place this letter into your hands," the messenger said formally. He discharged his duty and departed, leaving Nadir to stare at the heavy parchment in his hand.

Mojgan was keeping to the guestrooms and Darius was out in the stables. And Erik—who knew? Nadir did not know if he was glad for the solitude as he broke the seals and read his fate.

It was vague only in its brevity—in straightforward terms, the missive requested and required Nadir's attendance upon the Shah that very afternoon. But not, he noted with a firm jaw and a weak heart, at Nowshahr. No, Nadir was to meet the Shah in the Great Hall of Erik's seaside palace.

He had to wonder just what he would find there.

Nadir the man wanted to push that consideration aside, for it only caused him anxiety. But the Daroga, who really had first place in all things, insisted. It was foolish to walk into a bad situation without forethought. And if, perchance, it was really a benign situation—well, then, no harm done.

_But to my heart,_ Nadir thought, grumpy.

"You look as sullen as Erik," Mojgan appeared from the back of the house. She was casually arrayed in a loose over robe of green wool. Her hair was unbraided, and covered only with an embroidered cap in the Armenian fashion. Nadir realized that both items could be cast off quickly, if Mojgan needed to return to the guestroom and counterfeit illness. It wouldn't take a great imagination to believe her sick—her cheeks were hollow and her eyes tired.

Perhaps she was _sullen-as-Erik_ , too.

"The sky is dark and the wind is sharp," Nadir said, "and I have a long ride ahead of me."

"Court dress," she commented.

"An audience with the Shah," Nadir confirmed.

"Good," she said.

Nadir gave a short, surprised laugh. " _Good?_ "

She lifted her eyebrows. "Didn't you know? I'm dying from the suspense."

"It could go badly," Nadir pointed out. He was feeling philosophical.

"Of course," she said. "But at least it will _go."_

In the absence of Darius, she helped Nadir gather his things. He half-wondered how she knew where everything was. She helped him with his heaviest coat and, after a moment, disappeared into the backroom. She returned holding a glittering emerald and pearl bar-pin, which she had Nadir fasten to his collar.

"Feridoon said that the Shah gave him that after he was injured in Herat," she said. "As if a bit of sparkle was worth the risk of a man's life. And you know how Feridoon felt about jewelry. But when he wanted to Shah to pay attention to him, to remember who he was dealing with, he would wear it."

"And the Shah would listen?" Nadir asked, with a half-smile. "You do realize that your husband was rather more superstitious than he let on?"

Mojgan shrugged. "I don't know if it ever really worked. But perhaps it did. And perhaps the Shah needs to remember just who he is dealing with."

Nadir kissed her cheek in farewell. "Say what you will about the Shah, joonam. If there is one thing he never forgets, it is who he is dealing with."

* * *

Some hours later, he stood in the center of the grand entry hall of Erik's palace. It was one of the few rooms well and truly completed, from the mosaicked floor to frescoed ceiling. He wonder if, when the palace finally came to life, and there were a hundred men milling about, if it would be any less overwhelming.

Would the roar of fountains, with their malevolent gilt lion guardians, subside to a background trickle? Would the endless company of support pillars, elegant and almost stark in their mirror and white marble raiment, fade against the rainbow of robes the courtiers would wear?

For a moment, the pillars did fade in his mind's eye. They were replaced by a mirrored forest of metal trees, and Nadir knew that—no matter what else—there was one thing that would never fade from the palace. Erik.

"It will be more than a year before the interior is livable."

Nadir nearly jumped, but a lifetime of self-control allowed him to merely turn quickly in the direction of the Shah.

Naser al-Din looked… gleeful? "Regardless of that, Erik has left us with a marvelous canvas."

"Sire," Nadir said, with a deep bow. "I most humbly beg your pardon, for I—"

"Did not see me?" Yes, that was definitely glee in the Shah's voice. "Yes, that was the general idea."

Nadir gave the entire foyer a quick, critical inspection. "Majesty, surely we are not the only ones here?"

"Oh, no. My men are here," he offered a serene smile, "though I know I hardly need them when I am in such _good_ company as that of my cousin."

Nadir mumbled all of the right words, _honored_ and _gratitude_ and _duty_ in some order or another.

The Shah set a sort of rambling pace around the perimeter, which Nadir kept step with. "I had the most fascinating visit from our friend the magician a few days ago. Perhaps you know something of it, hm?"

"To be perfectly honest, Sire, our friend the magician is rather better at sleight of hand than I might wish," Nadir said. His bemusement was very real.

"Oh, no. No, I like his _sleight of hand_ very much," the Shah said. "Especially when I am let in on all of the little tricks of the trade." He gestured uncharacteristically wide, and Nadir just barely caught a glimpse of the Shah's hand pressing against one of the pillars. He nodded towards the wall. "Why don't you go in, Daroga? Don't fret: a flower's a good from the back as the front, and it's perfectly safe."

Thinking of every other time he had thought of one of Erik's ingenuities as 'perfectly safe,' Nadir walked towards the now not-so-hidden door. The Shah followed him, somewhat to Nadir's relief.

"Well?" The Shah asked. "What do you think?"

A small lantern sat near the door, casting weak light to Nadir's right and left. "It would appear to be a service passage," he replied.

The Shah sniggered. He pointed at a portfolio, leaning against the shadowed wall near the lantern. "One might think that, if one did not know any better. Take a look, Daroga. Our friend the magician is also a very great friend of trapdoors."

The portfolio contained numerous drawings—blueprints—marked with red ink. The mess of lines untangled itself before his eyes, and saw a veritable labyrinth of passageways behind walls. Erik's work, no doubt.

"Take the lantern and follow me," the Shah commanded. He set off to the right, taking a dizzying array of turns. He consulted the blueprints a few times, and paused when they came to an intersection. "Do you know where we are?"

"No, Sire," Nadir said.

The Shah pointed to the blueprint. The lantern light caught the glint of his ring. "We are just coming to the morning rooms on the south side. Do you know what they are doing there?"

Another "No, Sire."

"It is still under construction. Now— _silence._ " He continued down one of the corridors and then stopped. " _Listen."_

For a moment, Nadir heard nothing besides the faint din of construction. But, then—footfalls. Then, voices.

"… _So Maman said that Azra was trying to kill us all."_

_"What? Because the eggplant was too spicy?"_

_"She made Azra cry—hey, don't let that drop!— and then Azra was angry at_ me _for not standing up for her."_

_"Ah, Hooman, I_ told _you an Afghan wife would be more trouble than she was worth."_

_"But I_ like _spicy eggplant…"_

Nadir turned to see the Shah smiling. "It as if there wasn't even a wall between us."

The Shah nodded sagely. "Not a word can be spoken in this entire palace without the chance of being overheard— _if_ you know where to listen."

"And… Erik told you where to listen?" Nadir supposed.

"A surprise for me, he said," the Shah commented, "a gift of sorts."

They started heading back, this time at a slower pace.

"It does make one wonder," the Shah said, "What other gifts Erik might have up his sleeve—and who he might give them to in the future."

Nadir considered his next words carefully. "I believe Erik to be content in his service to your court, Your Majesty."

"Come now, Nadir," the Shah said, "dissembling sits badly on you."

"I believe it to be true," Nadir said.

The Shah shook his head slightly. "Oh, no. No. You may wish it so, but that does not _make_ it _true._ Hm. I will be seeing Erik tonight. I feel we have much to discuss. You, of course, needn't worry about any of it."

Nadir's blood went cold and he had to consciously prevent his hands from curling into fists. They emerged out of the gloom of Erik's hidden passageways and back into the main hall. A half dozen of the Shah's men had now taken up visible posts. Nadir kept his face impassive.

"Well, Nadir," the Shah handed off the blueprints to an aide that appeared at his side, "it is always pleasant to see you." He reached out and embraced Nadir, giving him the traditional three kisses. He paused for a moment, his hands still on Nadir's shoulders, his eyes locked on the emerald pin Mojgan had provided. "I know I can always count on your faithful service."

"My _Liege,"_ Nadir said deliberately.

The Shah turned away with a smile. Nadir felt sick.

* * *

He continued sick for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Darius dogged his heels.

"Agha," he said, as twilight came, "you seem distressed."

"And it is your duty to concern yourself with my distress?" Nadir snapped. He immediately felt badly for it. But he said nothing, merely let his expression soften.

Darius understood—the boy almost always _understood_. He nodded and made to leave the room.

"How long have you assisted me?" Nadir asked before he had reached the door.

"It has been nearly seven years," Darius replied.

"So long?" Nadir murmured. "Too long, then. You're capable enough, and man enough—next time I see Salman _agha_ , I will ask him what positions are available in the province. In another few years, you would do very well overseeing one of the smaller districts, I think."

The boy was quiet for a moment. "No, agha."

"Don't be silly, Darius. You may be young, but you have had a good head for the law—more so than many officers. At this point, I am merely keeping you from gaining the experience you need."

"No, _agha_." He was still quiet, but firm.

Nadir was exasperated. "No, _what?_ "

"No, I will not run away. I will not abandon you," Darius said.

"Is that what you believe it would be?" Nadir sighed.

"Yes, _agha_."

Nadir sighed and rubbed his eyes. "There may be a time, very soon, where _I_ will be the one running. Take my help while I may yet give it."

"Well," Darius said slowly, "you do not make tea very well, _agha_. You will always need me to make it for you."

Nadir was almost caught into laughing—laughter so he would not cry. He might have laughed (he might have cried, but he would not think on that) if a crash had not come from the back. Nadir was on his feet in an instant and Darius was already heading towards Mojgan's room. They didn't have the chance, for the commotion came to them.

Erik stumbled into the parlor, his coat torn and his hands bloodied. Mojgan trailed in behind him.

"He came through my window—"

"What the hell are you doing, Erik? Darius, is the cook?—"

"Gone for the night," Darius replied. "But _Jadugar agha—"_

Erik had gone down to his knees, his hands gripping his hair. He let out a pitiful wail and then looked up.

Nadir froze.

"Erik, where is your mask?"

Erik stared up at him with uncomprehending eyes. He gibbered for a moment—in French—too fast, too agitated for Nadir to follow. It was a horrible thing to see—the pencil line of his lips, too wide for his jaw, pulling back over teeth that looked yellow against the blue-white of his skin. The nose flaring in agitation, with its strange truncated shape dominated by cavernous nostrils. The eyes, as uncanny as light emanating from the empty sockets of a skull. Even his hair, too black and fine and lank, seemed to cut an unnatural line across his forehead. Suddenly, he composed himself and the image was even more monstrous. He looked as old as time and as ageless as hell.

His voice, when at last he screeched something out in Persian, was inhuman. "He tried to take out my goddamned eyeballs!" Then back down he went, doubled over in what looked like physical pain.

Nadir hazarded to look up. Darius's eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Mojgan was still staring at Erik. Her skin was drained of all color, and she had one hand latched across her mouth.

Nadir got down on one knee. "Erik. Erik. This important. Did anyone see you come here?"

Oh, how he wished he hadn't gone to the floor. Erik peered up at him, his death's head face too close, too horribly close for comfort. _There's a boy in there,_ Nadir reminded himself, _look at his eyes—a boy's eyes. Lost._

But he did not look like a lost boy for long. With a snarl, Erik leapt to his feet and threw himself into a violent pacing around the room. "See you? See you? _See you?_ Who do you think they saw? Who sees Erik? _No one sees Erik! No one!"_ He stilled and spun on his heel and stared. "Who can see a ghost?"

"Erik," Nadir tried again, quietly, "I need to know."

He threw back his head and laughed—oh, what a horrible laugh. A parody of joy, a reality of madness. The Devil must laugh like that, Nadir thought. And, oh, he must be laughing now, right in tandem with his finest creation.

He laughed and laughed and cried—while Nadir stood watching, and Darius stood praying, and Mojgan stood crying. And eventually, he quieted and spoke in the most reasonable voice.

"No. No one saw me. They think Erik went in the direction of the sea."

"They will come here," Nadir said, "but we have some little time. Sit. Sit and speak."

Erik sat and Erik spoke. In dry tones and unembellished terms, he spoke of coming into the Shah's audience chamber, of noticing the high number of guards and the low number of courtiers.

He spoke of how cordial the Shah was, how effusive his praise of Erik's masterpiece of a palace.

"He thought to lull Erik into complacency," Erik said, "but Erik knew better. He gave Erik gifts—so much gold! So much silk and cashmere! Beautiful red cashmere, so that Erik might make up a new coat. You know the coat, the Circassian coat with all of its tricks."

"I know the coat," Nadir interrupted, also knowing the beginning of a tangent, "what did the Shah do after he gave you the gifts?"

"He said the nicest things!" Erik exclaimed. In the Shah's voice, he continued, " _Erik agha, when first I heard of your magnificent voice, I had no idea of the magnificent mind behind it. Your talents surpass the greatest of the old masters. You have built me a marvel—but you must never build such a marvel again."_

Silence fell for too long, and Nadir could see that Erik was getting lost in his thoughts and memories. "And then what? What happened next?"

Erik shrugged. "He said that he thought to take temptation away from me. For how, he asked, could I build another palace like _my_ palace if I could not see?" He paused and looked around the room, as if for the first time. "Where did Darius go? I want him to get me tea. I'm parched. And a glass for Mojgan. She looks… hm. Faint. You look faint, Mojgan."

"No," Nadir cut in.

Erik huffed. "Such inhospitality—"

"Too many cups," Nadir said. "Erik, you must leave. Nowhere in Mazandaran will be safe now—you have fled from an Imperial order." The words died and turned to ash on his tongue.

Erik tilted his head and gave him a curious look. "Oh, yes. You've figured it out now. I wouldn't ask you to let me escape. Not really." He stood and offered Nadir his wrists. The gesture was dramatic, but his hands shook like any other condemned man's. "Bind me, then. Take me to the palace. Serve your master.

_And you swear, then, to serve the peacock throne? For all your days to be loyal helper of the crown?_ Fath Ali Shah had asked him that, so many years ago. Nadir had replied so earnestly, so assuredly, and the old Shah smiled. _Of course you will, Nadir Khan. You are a man of honor. Keep that honor, Daroga._

Daroga, the Shah had said.

_Daroogha,_ the Sultana had said.

And now Erik, whether he knew it or not, was asking Nadir to choose which one was true.

Darius slipped back into the room. "Daroga, there are men coming up to the courtyard."

They would be at the door in an instant, and so an instant was all the time Nadir had to make a choice. He pointed at Erik and then at Mojgan. "Both of you, hide."

Mojgan nodded and started to walk away, but Erik stood stock-still.

"Erik," Nadir hissed in an undertone. " _Go._ "

"I—" he opened and closed his mouth several times, "I—"

"Erik, come," Mojgan said quietly. When he still wouldn't move, she grabbed his hand and started pulling him away.

His eyes stayed on Nadir until he was out of the room.

There was but a moment to breathe before a firm knock sounded. Nadir arranged himself back on his couch, with his papers, as he had been some time earlier. He nodded at Darius, who went to the door solemnly.

In a glance, Nadir took in the armaments of the guards, their wary stance and well-trained eyes. Only two entered, standing just behind Salman.

Interesting choice. Salman was not an officer of the palace, but of the police. He was one of Nadir's direct subordinates and— dare he think it?—a friend. But Nowshahr was also under his jurisdiction, and if there was a fugitive on the run—

"Daroga _agha_ ," he greeted. "No, don't rise. This will just take a moment."

"Official business, Salman?" Nadir asked.

Salman's frown was lost in his silver beard, but it showed along his brow. "Yes. The Shah has put out an order for the execution for the Frenchman known as Erik."

"Execution?" Nadir asked. His voice sounded faint in his own ears. He knew what Erik was fated for, no matter the blinding, but it was still jarring to hear the word spoken aloud.

"He escaped the custody of the palace," Salman continued. He spoke slowly, clearly, as if Nadir was a child. No—as if Nadir needed to understand his rights. _Do you know what you are saying? Do you know what you are confessing to?_ "It was thought that he may well come to you."

"I knew this day would come," Nadir said, truthfully. "And I think Erik knew, too. He will not come here."

Salman looked at him and blinked slowly. "I beg your pardon, Daroga. But I must ask this outright. Nadir Khan, have you seen or in any way communicated with Erik at any time today?"

"No," Nadir said, and so damned himself.

_Why, why, why?_ Why did he cast off a lifetime of faithful service for a madman? Why did he protect a murderer at the potential cost of his own soul? Why did he betray his every standard of honor, his very sense of justice for that foolish boy?

_This is justice, Daroga. This is mercy._

His old colleague— his old friend— accepted his answer with a respectful bow of his head. "It goes without saying that, should Erik come to you, he must be _detained."_

Nadir replied with his own perfunctory nod.

Salman paused one last time. A look of profound distaste crossed over his face for a moment before being smoothed away by professionalism.

_What cloak and dagger play are you obliged to do now?_ Nadir wondered.

"I had heard that your—ah—cousin?—your cousin was ill," Salman said.

"She was," Nadir said. "But she is well again."

Salman looked quizzical. "Then she has returned home?"

"Yes," Nadir said. "To her brother-in-law's."

The confusion melted away, and Salman was now looking at Nadir very sharply. He had always admired that particular expression of Salman's—it was unnerving and profoundly useful during interrogations. "When was this?"

"Just a few days ago." How easily the art of courtly speech melted into outright lies!

Salman's expression changed again. He lost his sharp edge and now looked at Nadir with something like pity. "I shall let that be known, then."

"It is not a secret," Nadir said.

"No," Salman said, "I suppose it would not be. Farewell, Daroga."

"And to you, Salman."

He shut the door behind Salman, but did not lock it. He spent a moment, with his eyes closed and his heart shredded. But it rebuilt itself quickly, harder than ever, and he opened his eyes. He nodded to Darius and indicated that he should keep watch.

He went back to rooms Mojgan kept, but found them dark and empty.

"Mojgan?" he whispered. "Eri—"

"Here," Erik arose from the shadows near the bed, swathed head to toe in black cloth. He moved easily in the gloom, and opened one of the large chests on the opposite wall. He took out a few stacks of bedding. "Out you come."

"That was _damned_ uncomfortable," Mojgan groused, rising out of the box and smoothing her dress.

"You are lucky to be so short," Erik pointed out. He then turned to Nadir. "I heard."

"What did you hear?" Nadir asked.

"All," was the reply.

A fierce sentiment overtook Nadir for a moment and his eyes burned with unfallen tears. He tramped down on the feeling and kept his voice steady. "You need to leave. You need to disappear."

"So does she," Erik jerked his head towards Mojgan.

"I will take care of that," Nadir said.

"No. I will." Nadir could practically see Erik rolling his eyes under the cloth. "Besides, you couldn't sneak her out of the province if you had a potion for invisibility. But I—I'm a magician, if you haven't heard."

Mojgan looked between the two of them rapidly. "I need to leave, then? And Erik as well?"

Nadir nodded. "Yes, but—"

"I trust him," she said.

"I don't," Nadir growled.

"But you love him," she said. How easily the words spilled from her lips, but Nadir doubted she knew what she was really saying.

"No," Nadir replied. He stared at the shadow of Erik. "No. He sold his soul to the devil, after all."

"You have such a bad memory, Daroga," Erik said, "I just traded with him. Two songs."

"Two songs," Nadir repeated. He took a deep breath and prayed he was doing the right thing. "Darius!"

The boy appeared near the door.

"Agha?"

"Darius, get a change of your clothes," Nadir said, "something with a long robe—and a turban."

Darius nodded and hurried off. He returned in short order and handed the garments to Mojgan. She looked incredulous for a moment, but then nodded and excused herself.

"Which route shall I take?" Darius asked.

"You will stay here," Nadir said. "Erik is taking Mojgan."

A lemon couldn't have produced a more sour expression on Darius's face. But, after a moment, he nodded—Nadir supposed it was a night to simply accept one's fate. "Is there anything I can?..."

"No," Erik said. "I can handle it."

"Of course." Darius offered a bow. "Agha."

"Errand Boy."

After a long silence, Erik said, "Well, I told you that Erik and Nadir would have a marvelous time. Did I not?"

Nadir laughed and laughed. And then he cried.


	32. The Journey

Erik tried to remember the first time he ran away, but could not. If he squinted, he could sometimes picture his Old Master Madonna of a mother or the ancient Romani conjuror who had taught him so many of his original tricks. But what came in between that? It was a fearful void that Erik mentally shrunk away from, that made him want to wail a babyish _Maman!_ and hope she could hear him across the ages. Or, rather, that she would hear and _care_.

Whatever it was, he knew it involved running. Running fast and running far and hardly stopping at all. He ran through Italy and the Austrian Empire before slowing down in Russia. He had almost found a place there, an unpleasant but livable niche. There was music and adventure in Russia, if little else. But he had left it behind for the pipe-dream promises of a man in an astrakhan hat—and it had been a wonderful dream, a beautiful nightmare.

And now, it was time to wake up.

He wondered what he would have done, where he would have gone, if Mojgan hadn't been with him. It occurred to Erik that he might have just turned back to his kingdom by the sea and taken up residence in the hidden halls and concealed rooms of his palace. Oh, he had shown the Shah some of them, but not all. He could have haunted the Shah, tormented his court, and dealt disaster out wholesale. But what sort of life was that? He starting to think it was the only sort of life he was suited for.

It was immaterial, at any rate. He did have Mojgan with him, and he had promised to get her _home_ safely. What would happen after that was a question for another day.

"We need to stop."

Erik turned away from the business of rubbing down his horse to look at Mojgan. She was holding her hands out over the flames Erik had coaxed out of a meager supply of dry wood. "We _are_ stopped," he said.

"I know there's a good-sized town just north of here," she continued on, as if she had not heard Erik, "we can get provisions—and maybe another horse?"

"I don't want to draw the sort of attention that would come from stealing a horse," Erik replied.

Mojgan blinked at him. "I meant to buy it."

"No." Though, in all truth, it seemed like a wonderful idea to Erik—sundry complications had arisen from leaving Mazandaran with a single mount. He had done his best to snag a big warmblood, but they could only rely on the animal so much. They were stuck at a plodding pace. There was also the technical difficulty of a very tall man and rather small woman sharing a seat. Though, Erik supposed it was easier than having two tall persons competing for space and burdening their horse further…

"…and we still need food."

The complication of provisions was probably the most pressing. Erik had no luggage beyond a lantern and a few rolls of leather to use in the construction of makeshift shelters. Mojgan took only her money case and a change of ladies' attire. Even so, they were still only able to take a small sack of foodstuffs. These had been consumed only when needed and with little appetite from either wayfarer, but they had run their course. Yesterday morning, Mojgan had passed Erik the last two dates, claiming she had already eaten. Her enthusiastic advocacy of a stop at the nearest village confirmed what Erik had suspected then—she had lied.

"It's too dangerous. Pretend it's Ramadan."

"Even if we stop zigzagging through the forest, go onto the main road now and _stay_ there, and by some miracle that poor beast holds out, we're still at least four days away from Ghazvin," she said.

Erik's first thought was of the number of times he had gone four—or five, or six—days without food. His second thought was of how little he had enjoyed those particular occasions. He wandered over to the fire and found a fairly dry spot an arm's-length away from Mojgan. It was as close as he came to her when they weren't riding. He watched as his horse happily nosed out some roughage and felt profound jealousy.

"This weather has probably sent most of the merchants indoors," Erik said. "Which means it will be much more difficult to pilfer anything."

Again, Mojgan simply blinked at him. "I _still_ meant to buy it, Erik. I'm carrying plenty of money."

Erik snorted. "Yes. Let's see how that would go. _Oh, Baker Agha, might I please have a week's worth of bread, wrapped up nice and tight against the rain? …What? I don't know why on earth you would think I'm that condemned criminal that the runners from Nowshahr have been warning every local constable about. Many a man wears a mask! It's all the rage in Tehran this year!"_

"You might be a little conspicuous," she admitted. "But I'm sure no one would give me a second look. All they will see is a somewhat bedraggled boy who got caught in the rain but must continue on to his destination straight away, lest his master take a rod to his back."

Erik stared at her. She was dressed in what Erik assumed to be Darius's old clothes, abandoned after the boy got a little height on him— trousers and tunic and two overcoats that hid any rogue hint of a feminine figure just as the neatly wrapped turban hid her long hair. The last remnant of kohl had been scrubbed from her face days ago, and though her obvious youth might have excused her smooth chin, Erik could not see her as anything but a woman. He let his bemusement color his tone. "Yes, because bedraggled boys with masters wear three rings on each hand and have pretty little pouts. You look no more a normal man in your turban than I would look a woman if I wore a veil."

It was Mojgan's turn to look bemused. She started twisting off her rings. "You do know that a woman wearing men's clothing is considered _damned,_ don't you? And if it's discovered, the local lawmen or mullah could take great exception—one would be lucky to get away with a few dozen lashes."

"You are not making a very good case for letting you go," Erik pointed out.

"What I'm trying to say is that no sane woman would walk into town in men's clothing. It won't even occur to people to question me."

"I don't like it," Erik declared. "I told _him_ that I would take care of you." At that moment, Erik's belly decided to rebel against him and rumble piteously.

Mojgan arose and dusted off her coat. She handed Erik her handful of rings for safekeeping. "You are."

By early evening, the whole escapade was done and over with. Erik had accompanied Mojgan as far as the outskirts of the town, given her the horse, and then secreted himself a little ways up the main road. He fretted, picturing how Mojgan's ghost would haunt him if trouble should befall her. And the Daroga's eventual ghost as well, he supposed.

_I don't kill women. I don't let women be killed. Damn, did I just send a woman to her death?_

That mantra beat in his head for three-quarters of an hour, until Mojgan rode up the rough lane. She grinned when Erik appeared at the roadside and the gesture nearly stopped his heart.

"I have all sorts of nonperishables," she said, "but I also have a couple of slices of tah-chin, and it's _hot."_

"Scoot forward," Erik said, "we need to move on."

Mojgan kept her seat and urged the horse a little out of Erik's reach. "I will agree to move on, if you agree to stop before dusk to have dinner."

Erik glanced at the sky, which was already showing the sun setting behind dark clouds. "Only if you let me on the horse _right now._ We'll ride fast."

"You are determined to lame this animal," she replied primly.

"I am determined not to get caught. I am determined not to _die._ "

She had nothing to say to that and so they went on their way.

Later, they sat with their backs propped against a tree, Mojgan facing south and Erik on the other side facing north. The chicken and rice no longer qualified as _hot_ , but it was warmer than anything else in the woods. Erik tried not to eat too quickly, but he loathed the fact that Mojgan could get up at any minute and catch him without his mask. But she seemed, mercifully, more interested in her dinner than anything else.

"I picked up some candied chickpeas," she said. "I know you have a sweet tooth."

"We should save them," Erik said.

"If you'd rather." Another few minutes passed. "Thank you, by the way."

"What for?"

"Letting me have my way, of course." She sounded wry.

Erik paused. "Are you teasing me again?"

"Not in the least!" She exclaimed. She started to rise, but sat back down when Erik tensed and scrambled to grab his mask. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "Today, I went out to the market— and it could well be the last decision I ever really make."

"The Daroga said you were going to stay with your brother-in-law. Surely you think you'll be welcomed."

"I suppose so. I don't know. Paniz was married after I left home. I don't know her husband at all. My younger sister lives with them and I'm not sure how keen he'll be on having another sister-in-law in the house." After a moment, she added: "I'm not as nice as Jaleh, either."

Erik thought that the appropriate response was one of reassurance— _no, they'll be delighted to see you, you sweet girl._ But he was not sure of the reality. "Do you have an escape plan, then?"

She laughed and Erik wondered if he had said something terribly wrong. "No, but perhaps I should. Do you have one?"

"Of course," Erik replied. "This, admittedly, has not been my best execution of such a plan."

"I somehow think I was an unexpected addition," she said.

"Yes." Erik thought on his other travelling companions. They had been few and far between. The Daroga, leading him like a wolf to the slaughter, had been the most genial. Erik had been awful to him. The memory made him smile.

"You didn't need to do this," she commented. Her tone was light but Erik could detect the cadence of deception in it. Acting the self-sacrificing heroine, perhaps? But no—she needn't playact either of those things. "You could have just gone on by yourself."

"No," Erik said.

"Nadir would have understood—he wanted you to save yourself," Mojgan pointed out.

It was true. The Daroga probably would have rather had Erik run off alone and dealt with Mojgan himself. But there was that niggling feeling that said that Mojgan was in danger because of him. Never mind that the Sultana hated Mojgan—Erik was the only reason the Sultana even _knew_ Mojgan. _My fault, as always._ And then there was the question of the Daroga. God knew what fallout he would experience from Erik's disappearance. It was likely that he wouldn't have been a bit of help to his pretend-cousin in the coming weeks.

Still, Erik was accustomed to leaving destruction in his wake. _Survive,_ was his first endeavor. _Live and let live_ was much further down the list. And yet… yet, he was applying his full mastery of the art of escape in the interest of a slip of a girl, heading fully in the opposite direction of where _he_ wanted to end.

"I owe the Daroga nothing," Erik lied. "I did this in _spite_ of him."

Mojgan hummed in reply started repacking her satchel of food.

"You've never wronged me, even by apathy," Erik continued. "The idea of having your blood on my head is unbearable. I think the scraps of my soul would drown in it, and then where would I be?"

"I'm not the right person to talk to about souls," Mojgan said. "But I _think_ —or rather, I hope I am right to think—that the human spirit can survive much more than we believe it can. I think it can even survive being torn to shreds and drowned."

"I don't want to find out," Erik said, firmly.

"I hope you never do, then. Press on or set up camp?"

Erik stared up at the dark sky, the occasional star that peeked through the clouds and treetops. It was one of the nicer nights they had had on the road. Dry, for a start, and clear enough for Erik's sharp night vision to be trusted. He was fatigued, but not exhausted, Mojgan seemed energized by supper. They could manage at least another two or three leagues, even if they spared the horse and walked. And hadn't he been complaining earlier of their miserably slow pace? And yet— no, he didn't want to finish that thought. He would take Mojgan home, as promised, and then take himself far away.

And yet—

"Camp. We can start again at dawn."

He sat a little closer to her that evening—her arm's length, instead of his—and then passed the hours with song. Ostensibly, it was to help keep the tigers away, but Erik knew how soothing his voice could be when he wanted it to be. This time, he wanted it to be. To his surprise, he found some comfort in the little folk songs Mojgan had to offer. It was a sweet voice, with no great power behind it, but a pretty tone. He missed it, when she fell asleep.

In the end, it had taken just over a week to get to Ghazvin. Mojgan had been unusually talkative for the last day. They were getting well into the territory of childhood. She pointed out the shortcuts to this little village and told silly stories of visiting them with her long-dead mother. She spoke of the mayhem of harvest time and the quiet of winter, of her father's accounts and sisters' beaux. And as early morning gave way to the afternoon, and afternoon to evening, she started showing Erik the specific trees she had climbed up and rocks she had sat on and the little hideaways she had found or made.

Erik listened to it all in silence, taking it in like any fairytale removed from the reality of life. He asked, only occasionally, if they were still going in the right direction or if they were getting close. And with each affirmation, his mood wilted. And, if he wasn't utterly mistaken, it seemed as though Mojgan's started to as well. Her commentary became less delighted and more anxious-sounding.

"There's a creek over there," she commented. "It's the edge of my father's—I mean, my brother-in-law's—property."

"So close?" Erik asked, though he knew the answer. They had been _close_ for half a day, now.

"I—ah—I can't go home dressed like this," she said, looking meaningfully at her luggage.

"Night is coming fast—take the lantern. I'll wait here for you," Erik said. "Do you think anyone will come?"

"Oh, no," she replied. "And I won't be a minute."

Erik dismounted and helped Mojgan off, a bit of gallantry that had fallen away in the past few days. But time was short, and Erik loathed the idea that she would remember him as a monster and not a gentleman.

She took her change of clothing and the lantern, and in the end decided to lead their horse to the creek as well. Erik found himself pacing, examining the twilit trees and shadowed pebbles. He could hear the splash of water, the quiet huffing of the horse. In the distance, there was laughter. He thought, for a moment, of simply starting to walk away. Mojgan was _as good as_ home, he thought. What harm would there be in simply melting into the shadows, continuing on his way—whichever way that was. But she returned before he could resolve to such a course. She looked even smaller now, in her simple gown and long chador. He wondered if her family would see her as any different from the girl that had left them years ago. Would they ever know how much she had seen? Would she ever tell them?

"These clothes are much too small for you," she commented, "and they are _filthy._ But we can wash them out and you can have a better pillow for the rest of your journey."

Erik pointedly ignored her strange use of the word _we_. "Which way?"

She pointed and they walked, still that arm's length away from one another and with Erik holding the horse's reins. The trees thinned and gave way to fields.

"You're very quiet," she commented. Ironically, he thought, for her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I have very little to say."

She stopped suddenly. "Didn't we agree to be friends? Can we not part as such?"

It was Erik's turn to pause. Would he ever understand the woman? She had given him every benefit of the doubt over the course of their entire acquaintance. From that first insistence she had made to Feridoon that that _he can't be all bad_ to the simple defense she gave to Nadir of _he says he did not do it._ And what had she said, just before she placed her life in his hands and ran away with him? _I trust him._ No, he would never understand her, except to understand that she was mad. He supposed that the time for that understanding was passing, as well. "You will live your life," he said, "and you will forget Erik."

She sighed. "I think not."

"I hope so," Erik said, fervently. They remained silent until a large home, stately but not rich, came into view. "The house is still awake." It was a needless comment. Light, warm and welcoming, spilled from the windows. And laughter—laughter like Mojgan's laugh, sincere and without a single touch of mockery. "You'll get a proper welcome."

"I will get… many questions," she replied. "But I am prepared. Won't come with me? You must be as tired as I am."

Erik shook his head. "I will continue on."

"Where to? Will you tell me at last?"

What harm could there be in it? "Where I am not expected—back to Mazandaran."

Mojgan's eyes widened. "I will not insult you by asking if you've thought this through."

Erik chuckled. "A risk, I know. But I did not have the chance to grab my, ah, jewelry box as you did. I have a number of such things that will not be missed if I retrieve them."

"I see." She turned away from Erik to look at her childhood home. "And then where to?"

"Across the sea, I think. The Shah gave me the most marvelous tip before ordering me blinded—he thinks the Sultan of Constantinople would be interested in my work."

Was that a smile on her lips or a shadow of the early moonlight? "Of that I am sure. Be safe."

"I will be. You, as well."

"Be happy."

"That I cannot promise."

She turned to look at him pointedly. "But you can promise to try."

"Yes. I can promise that." Erik's hand tightened around the reins of his horse.

She looked down at her hands. Her nails were dirty, Erik noted, and the tips of her fingers badly chapped. Her rings were incongruous—the stylings of a noblewoman on the hands of a fugitive. She twisted one off now, a substantial gold piece set with rubies. She held it out.

"In case it is more difficult in Mazandaran than you expect. It should get you passage somewhere."

Erik stared at the ring stupidly. He shook his head. "You needn't pay for my escort, Mojgan."

"It's not payment; it is insurance," she said. When Erik made no move to take the piece, she snatched one of his hands and pushed the ring on. She had worn it on her middle finger. It barely fit on Erik's pinkie. "Then as a remembrance."

The rubies glinted blood red on his pale hands. Fittingly so, he supposed. "Yes."

"Good," she said. "Good. God keep you, Erik."

He placed his hand on her shoulder and, as gently as he could, turned her in the direction of her home. She nodded, picked up her single bag, and walked forward.

Were those tears in her eyes, or was it the moonlight again playing more tricks?

He waited, listening for the reception she would receive.

There was some small commotion that set him on edge for just a moment, before the tune altered and became… utterly joyful.

He blinked and remounted.

Much later, he reached into the saddlebag to get a flagon of weak wine. Instead, he found a sack of candied chickpeas and he ate them with pleasure. He found himself humming in the dark forest. The song burned and delighted him.


	33. The Aftermath

Having made the decision to _be on Erik's side_ , Nadir found it surprisingly easy to stay there. A lifetime of loyalties melted away. And his life, once stripped of that elegant varnish, seemed very ugly indeed.

In place of duty, Nadir found a strange, almost mystic serenity. He watched with clinical interest as his subordinates and colleagues investigated Erik's disappearance. He offered no protest against this usurpation of his rightful responsibility.

When he stumbled upon the opportunity to facilitate the _close_ of the case, he took it without hesitation. A tall, scrawny corpse, quite defaced and utterly waterlogged, soon washed up on the coast near the new palace. It wore Erik's rotting clothing and Salman agha declared the fugitive caught. Whether anyone was really convinced, Nadir didn't know. But no one glanced askance at _him_ over the imposter corpse.

The Shah never asked him about Erik, and Nadir never offered.

He wondered, occasionally, when exactly he had turned into such a hypocrite.

It would have appeared to any outside observer that Nadir's life changed very little. A few even commented, in a roundabout way, on how fortunate he was to have escaped his association with The Monster unscathed.

Nadir knew better. He watched assignments pass by and responsibilities shift away from him. He was still _the Daroga of Mazandaran,_ but it started to seem more like an unearned honorific than a titled office. The Shah seldom called him to the palace, and never to Tehran. What social life he had possessed faded, and in the absence of work his lack of friends was stark.

Weeks and months and years of fading into obscurity and then, quite suddenly, the Shah called again.

He dressed carefully, strapped on his neglected sword, and whimsically added the emerald pin from Mojgan. Faithful Darius played his squire and they rode out to the Roshaneh Darya Palace— _Erik's_ palace. He wondered if it was a calculated move and then chastised himself for being dense. He would be a fool to think it was anything but deliberate.

"Nadir," the Shah greeted him. There was no warmth in his voice and it did not escape notice that he had not used any of Nadir's titles.

Nadir made obeisance. His voice was as cold as the Shah's, he noted.

"I heard the most _interesting_ thing from my envoy in Turkey," he said. "Apparently, Abdulaziz had the most fascinating installation put in at the Eyup Palace."

"Constantinople?" Nadir asked. It had been quite a while since foreign affairs had come his way. "What has been done?"

"It appears that he has acquired the most astonishing piece of automata," the Shah continued, "it looks just like the Sultan himself, so lifelike that his own servants are deceived."

"I see," Nadir replied, though he did not. He could hardly believe that the Shah would be sending him off on another acquisition mission—not after Erik _._

"It's said that the machines were constructed by a magician," the Shah said. His voice had become very mild. His hands shook with something that had to be fury. "A _masked_ magician."

Ah. Of course. _Of course._

"Of course, the Abdulaziz isn't a _complete_ fool," he said, "he knew that such a man with such abilities shouldn't be allowed to roam the earth free. You can well imagine what happened next."

"Indeed, Your Majesty, I am not entirely sure," Nadir said.

"Well, the magician escaped, of course. He has run away and God in heaven alone knows where he is. But _I thought,_ " the Shah finally smiled, a razor blade of a gesture, "I thought that, hm, I know a man who can find masked magicians quite easily. I thought of you, Nadir Khan."

Nadir bowed. It made him dizzy. Erik. There was no way the genius inventor was _not_ Erik. The world was simply not wide enough to contain another such man. Erik, Erik, Erik… _Still stuck to me, Erik, aren't you? I knew I would never quite escape you._ "I am at your service, my Liege."

"I had hoped you would say that," he said brightly.

Nadir was glad he had not said the first words that had come to mind: _I am at your disposal._

"I would like you to go to Turkey," the Shah said, "and find this masked genius."

"And?"

"And bring him back to me, of course." The Shah spoke briefly on the logistics of the assignment, of what scant resources would be at Nadir's disposal, and what was currently known about the man in question.

Nadir accepted the assignment—what choice did he have?—and turned to leave.

"Nadir? One more thing."

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"This is quite important to me, you understand." The Shah smiled at him. "I will accept nothing but success."

"I will do my best, Your Majesty."

"That is not enough, Nadir, it is not enough. Do not return without the man."

It took a moment for the words to register for in Nadir's mind, but when they did, it was knife in his heart. There was no mistaking the meaning of the words or Naser al-Din's intent.

"Of course. My Lord."

* * *

Damavand stood proud and pure against the saturated sky, and all was right in Mazandaran. A quarter of a century ago, Nadir travelled from the other side of Persia to end here, caught between mountain and sea. He had been content to do so and had never looked back.

Well, there would be no looking back from this, either.

"Daroga," Darius appeared at his side, weighed down with luggage. "The ship is boarding."

Nadir thought of trying, yet again, to convince Darius to stay. When he had taken the young boy into his employ, he had never intended this to be the end result. But he knew Darius would never agree. He would not insult him by offering again. Instead, he nodded. "I will come in a moment."

He turned his eyes to the Caspian, green against the intense blue of the sky. Both looked limitless, though he knew every beginning had an end.

"Well, Erik," he whispered, "my life appears to be in your hands. Let us see where you lead me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That's that. We're leaving Persia for good now. You could easily view this as the end of one story, and the next chapter as the start of a new one. So if you're really only interested in Erik's Persia years… jump ship now. Next chapter, we're jumping into the future and the significantly less canonical further adventures of Erik, Mojgan, Nadir, and Darius in Paris. See you next week!


	34. Not All the Sum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is now changing from prequel to sequel. It's also morphing into my favorite genre: awkward romance. It's a wee bit less canon-compliant than my other stories, mostly in regards to the timeline. I wanted a slightly younger Erik than my Stroll on Sunday one. I've been kicking myself over that decision for seven years now, but not enough to rewrite the whole story.  
> …this is, honestly, not my best work. This whole section is the reason I took down Sum a few years back. It just didn't gel. It still doesn't quite work for me, but there are a few good moments in here and hopefully it's still a nice bit of escapist fluff. (Well, not especially fluffy fluff. More meditative fluff.) The story's written and done with, but I'm open to constructive critique. Doesn't save this story, but maybe the next one! :)   
> Having said that, thanks ever to everyone who has taken the time to review. It means quite a bit to me. At the very least I can give you a complete story! Now, onwards!

My Dear Shadi,

I had thought to write a little more about my years in Ghazvin, but there is really so little to say. After that wild, fateful day when I fled from Mazandaran there was a period of calm— of boredom. I lived as I had feared I would. I do not mean to make it sound like a bad life. It wasn't. But it also wasn't my own. For the most part I lived in my childhood home with my sister's family. It was her husband, Ramin, who had taken over Father's business, and he did so very well. He was a proper brother-in-law, always willing to work for the good of his family and always willing to shoulder his own responsibilities. He had no need for me to play accountant, as I had in times past. And so I lost myself. Sister helps oversee the kitchen, Auntie gives music lessons; Sister stitches the curtains, Auntie takes us to the market for sweets.

I was barely 'Mojgan' anymore— and I certainly was not Lady Morgan.

Part of it was by choice, I suppose, or at least _design_. I had cut ties to my old life like a seamstress snips stray thread. Everything went through my old, reliable house manager. Servants who had long been with Feridoon were given generous pensions. Khadija was given enough money to marry on. Properties were sold, assets consolidated. I probably spent a fortune on what came down to fear. Nadir and I exchanged one set of letters—he inquired if I was well, I replied 'well enough.'

Ramin spoke more than once about the possibility of my remarriage. I still had many resources, thanks to Feridoon, and I was still young. But as time went on, there was less and less talk. My oldest sister, Golnaz, moved back into the neighborhood. Jaleh married. They all had children. The business prospered. The family grew. And all the while I stayed, just left of center. Always there, always helping, always included, always cared for, always loved.

I was content, though I should have been happy.

Please never mistake me— I did not desire to return to the horrors of the past. I knew that the glamour of the imperial court was exactly that: a spell cast to conceal the rot beneath. I knew that a loving family was worth a hundred false friends, and that simple pleasures long outlasted the exotic bloom of luxury. I knew that beauty was the shield of pain and that in genius lurked madness.

But, still, I had lived more than my sisters had, than their husbands, and our neighbors. I had been touched by darkness. Even though I had not been corrupted by it, I had been shadowed. Shaded, if you will, as if by an artist's pencil. It was perhaps during this interlude that I shifted from pragmatism to cynicism. It is an evolution of character that I have never been proud of, but I think it must have been inevitable. I was so much on my own in those years. Surrounded by all the makings of happiness, I could not manage to create it for myself. It was probably my own fault.

Ten years passed. I was no longer young, and it seemed to me that my life's pattern had been engraved in stone. Sometimes that felt like a strengthening pillar. More often it felt like a millstone around my neck. I tried to comfort myself by saying _I chose this._ But I knew better—I was not living the life I would have chosen for myself, just the one that had been offered to me.

A few more years passed and then the stone was shattered, and my life changed again.

It was a letter that rerouted my fate, from Maryam. I had not seen her since I had left Tehran all those years previously and had heard from her but rarely. But now this letter— I have it here before me now, as wrinkled with age as I am.

_Mojgan-Joon,_

_I am torn, my dear friend. On the one hand, I hope this letter does not find you at the given address. I hope some handsome stranger has wandered through old Ghazvin and decided to whisk you away somewhere— anywhere— more interesting._

_Do you hate me for having neglected you all of these years? Let me atone for it! I have long wished to see you again, but you and I both know the fickleness of fashion. Well, my dear, I think the time for you to come back into fashion—_ no one _will bother you now. I have been in Azerbijan for some weeks and will soon evince a return to Tehran. Let me take you on as my traveling companion, and then my house guest! I am no more than a week behind this letter, and once I descend upon your house, I shall not take no for an answer!_

_Be well, my old friend, and may the peace of God be upon you. I will see you soon!_

_Maryam_

I told the family that I had an old friend that might be passing through the neighborhood, but not of her proposition. Part of me didn't believe Maryam would come at all. I didn't pack or plan anything beyond making sure the kitchen was well stocked. It came almost as a surprise to me when Maryam did touch done in our provincial parlor, all awhirl and so very much as I remembered her.

She looked older, which shocked me more than it should have. I looked at her lined face and crinkled eyes and wondered how much time had passed me by. But her smile was brilliant and clothing outrageous and before anyone knew what had happened, she had me back on the road to Tehran.

I embraced my sisters, nieces, and nephews. I took market requests and told them to expect me back in six weeks' time.

To this very day, I have not laid eyes on a single one of them since Maryam pulled me into her carriage. It has only been in very recent years that I have started to regret that, but I genuinely believe they all understood.

Tehran was a different place from the last time I had been. Or, perhaps, I was different. We passed by Feridoon's old estate, long since sold-off to some other court official. At the time, I was dispassionate. Now, of course, I can't help but be sentimental.

The Sultana's star had long since fallen. The Shah had been once to Europe and would go again in a few years. France was out of favor, England was in, and Russia was angry— some things never changed.

Maryam still held her curious little court of noblewomen who would come in their chadors to look at the latest fashion magazines from Paris. Noblemen still came, as well, though Maryam's husband had died a few years previously. ("I teased him to death," she said, with a smile belied by tears.) She played a sort of salonniere for them, giving the great and powerful a chance to mingle with the brilliant and rising. And there was I, Maryam's vaguely provincial friend who hadn't been to the capital in years, stuck in the middle of it all.

Maryam was an excellent hostess and I enjoyed myself immensely. I spent Feridoon's barely touched money and chatted with bright ladies and witty gentlemen. Occasionally, I would gaze in the direction of Golestan Palace and remember what drove me away from such a life in the first place. In those moments, I would feel very much alone. But I was comfortable with my aloneness and made little effort to counteract it. That drove Maryam to distraction, for she hated being by herself and could hardly fathom someone feeling differently. About a month into my visit, after I had begged off from some engagement or another, I watched a curious, sharp look come into Maryam's eye. I thought for a moment that I had offended her, but the sharpness was quickly replaced with glee.

The next morning, Reza Gholi Khan visited. I didn't give him a second thought, for he looked very much like any other man that might call at Maryam Khanum's. He was smallish, pleasant, with a shaved head and neat European style beard. He wore frock coats and Kashmiri paisley scarfs with boutonnières and gold-tipped walking sticks. He was a bit over sixty and had spent half his life in the Foreign Office. When he met me, he took my hand—a terrible impropriety— and bowed over it. He called me 'Lady Mojgan' and meant it.

"I hear you speak French, Lady Mojgan," he commented that first day.

I demurred. It had never been proficient and it had been years since I had said a single word. No matter, he said. And then he told me about the lavender fields of Provence.

"I hear you play the piano," he said on the second day.

Again, I demurred, for very much the same reasons. He responded by telling me about the opera houses of Vienna.

On the third day, he asked about my politics and then spoke eloquently on Russian folktales. On the fourth, the topic was family—mine and his.

Two days before I was due to leave for home, he found me alone and asked for my hand in marriage. I must have looked more than a little incredulous, for he proceeded to lay out his argument.

"When the Shah started his tour of Europe, he took some of his ladies," he said, "but he sent them back after the first leg—the Europeans simply do not understand _hajib._ A woman in a veil, who does not sit down to supper in mixed company, who is unwilling to waltz with a strange man—they don't see a rich tradition, an ancient culture. What they see is savagery. And so the Foreign Office has a policy—no wives to be taken on diplomatic missions. But I have found this to have its own difficulties."

"It sounds like you need to marry a European," I pointed out.

Reza shrugged, very elegantly. "What? So I have French wife when I deal with the French, and English one for the English, a Russian for Moscow, and an Italian spare? The Europeans don't look kindly on harems, either. They simply don't understand."

A Persian wife was what he needed, he insisted. A Persian woman with a keen interest in the wider world, who would be willing to leave her homeland for years at a time and immerse herself in some other culture.

"Such a woman," he said earnestly, "would be invaluable to me—and to the Empire."

I sipped tea to delay my reply. "I think you might ask Maryam."

Reza had a knack—I'm not sure if it was a diplomatic affectation, or if he excelled in diplomacy because of this natural ability—to make one feel like single most important person in the world. He was warm and vibrant and _encouraging._ He smiled at me. "There is one more trait that might be deemed desirable. Shall we call it, ah, _tact?"_

"Ah, that."

"I had not thought to bring this up, but I knew your late husband. I met him in Russia and our paths crossed occasionally. He was, without a doubt, one of the most level-headed and thoughtful men I have ever encountered. If he took you to wife, you must be a remarkable woman." He looked somewhat self-satisfied. "Indeed, I am entirely confident in that assessment."

His confidence was infectious and he merrily razed any objection I came up with. That I didn't love him and he did not love me did not enter into the argument. He was a consummate politician in need of a tactical advantage, and I was a woman with nothing to lose. The life he was offering was beyond imagining. Seldom did women _leave_ Persia. We had no native counterparts to Isabella Bird or Jane Dieulafoy. It was not merely to the opportunity of a lifetime—it was an opportunity _for_ a lifetime.

I did not agree that day. I waited for Maryam to return and reprimanded her soundly for orchestrating the whole thing. She did not deny doing so.

"What is the worst that could happen? Reza is rich—richer than your Feridoon ever was—and he is amenable. If this international scheme of his doesn't work out, you'll at least be able to keep up a great house in the first style." Maryam then invoked the magic words, and she knew it. "You will be free to do what you please."

When it became obvious that I was running out of excuses, I told him some little bit of why I had retired back to Ghazvin. It was not a matter of concealing the truth—simply of letting parts of the past stay in the past. Of Erik, I said nothing. I long ago determined that no one would be told of our flight from Mazandaran and Reza asked no further details of my bland explanation, 'I left and returned home.' Nadir was mentioned only as my kinsman who had been kind to me. And I did not need to speak of the specific attempts the Sultana had made on my life in order to illustrate the bad blood between the Imperial harem and myself.

Reza nodded sagely, thanked me for my honesty, and dismissed it as a concern. I had never been in conflict with anyone who actually _mattered._

And so, I married the man and was styled _Khanum_ for my trouble.

As it turned out, Reza and I dealt extremely well with one another. He had a tendency to be bombastic and cunning—not to mention, peevish in the morning—but he liked my reserve. The minute I agreed to marry him, he turned my life upside down and inside out. The first thing he did was send an aide from the Foreign Office over to give me French lessons ( _"They don't call it_ lingua franca _for nothing!"_ he told me. It took me a while to get the joke.)

As he wrestled to get me a passport, a much more difficult task than you can ever imagine, he sent me etiquette books and fashion magazines and edited copies of political reports. He had me fitted with more _types_ of dresses than I had thought possible: house dress and traveling dress, visiting dress and promenade dress, morning, afternoon, evening dress. (He told me that I would be obliged to wait until we arrived in Europe to have an entire wardrobe made up.) We married quickly and quietly—and then we were away.

"Italy," Reza said, when I asked about his next assignment.

"Then why am I learning French?"

"Well, everyone must start _somewhere._ You have a head start on this one."

Italy was somewhat delayed, as our journey took us through Turkey and Reza ended up with business in Constantinople. The Ottoman Empire had suffered a rather humiliating defeat at the hands of the Russians, and the Sultan thought the Shah might be sympathetic. What went on behind closed doors, I hardly know and it hardly mattered. This wasn't the milieu Reza had brought me out of Persia for, but it was still enlightening. Feridoon had been so allergic, so reticent about politics. Reza lived and breathed and loved it. (I sometimes wonder what quirk of fate had decreed that it was _Feridoon_ who was assassinated before forty.)

He would come to our rented apartments and tell me wild stories about the Sultan and the Russian chancellor, not to mention the British envoys looking to scavenger the carnage.

"You're not interested!" he exclaimed one afternoon. I still fondly remember the expression he wore. It was nearly a parody of shock.

I denied this. Indeed, I was interested. Reza was a wonderful storyteller and his days were filled with storybook intrigues. And, I pointed out to him, he _was_ my husband. I was _supposed_ to be interested in him.

"That doesn't alter the fact that I have just revealed to you the secret foibles of a number of world leaders—and I don't think you care in the least." Before I could defend myself on this account, he started laughing. "I knew you were a good choice—I just didn't know _how_ good."

We were there for six weeks before moving on to the coast to catch our ship. It wasn't even a week between Izmar and Bari, but Reza did not let the time go by idly.

I will never forget the first morning we set out on the Mediterranean. I had a new maid—a _lady's maid—_ a Turkish girl who had only a slightly firmer grasp on my new wardrobe than I did. The underpinnings alone, corsets and petticoats and bustles galore, seemed to my eye to be an outfit in entirety. The first time I walked around the stateroom attired thusly left Reza laughing again. But then he got that gleam in his eye that proclaimed an Idea.

"Perfect time to teach you to waltz!" he exclaimed. "Those dresses you'll be wearing are damned heavy, and it might do for you to have some practice in less cumbersome attire." He called in a scandalized member of the ship's band to play a simple measure and twirled me around the cramped quarters until his feet were bruised and I was laughing as well.

By the time we arrived in Rome, I knew that marrying Reza had been a mistake. But I also knew it was possibly the more glorious mistake I could have possibly made.

I could fill books' worth of letters about my adventures with Reza, but I don't think I will. There's something about the way this lamp fails to light my desk and the way Nurse's voice is starting to sound faint in my ears that disturbs me. Perhaps I will one day try to backtrack and tell you the stories of my time with Reza—I think you might enjoy hearing the tales of my innumerable social missteps and cultural _faux pas_ — but for now, I feel I must press on.

I must tell you about Paris.

My paper is laid out and my pen stands at the ready. You will hear from me soon, joonam.

_Mojgan Khanum_


	35. Of Earthly Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently reread Leroux. I forgot how much I like Mifroid and his lame jokes. Also, I am far too invested in Darius.

Darius made his way down the wide boulevard running parallel to the wasteland that had once been the Tuileries Palace. He had never seen more than the ruins of the old buildings, and now even that had been cleared away. Supposedly, a garden was being installed on the grounds, but Darius had yet to see any evidence to support that. Today, he didn't have a glance to spare for the bare land. He contended with a large mass of parcels that somewhat abated his enjoyment of the late autumn day. Seeing a break in the traffic, he crossed to the other side of the street. Here, the walkway was protected by a portico that blocked out much of the weak sun. No matter—he took a quick turn onto a tiny side street and was in the light again.

 _Street_ was almost too grand of a word. It was practically an alley of the Rue de Rivoli, with a cramped succession of front doors and stairways to second-floor apartments, only occasionally enlivened with the odd window-box. They were nice enough apartments inside, in decent repair and with all the necessities. The landlady, who resided in the largest specimen on the corner, was sensible and believed in reasonable rents.

The front door of that venerable lady's home opened just as Darius passed it. "Monsieur Darius! Darius, darling, I'm not letting you slip away from me!"

Darius turned on his heel and undertook the perilous business of shifting his load to one arm. Once he had a free hand, he lifted his astrakhan to the landlady's daughter. "Madame, when have I ever tried to slip away from you? Why would I want to?"

Irène Lantins was pretty and wore her newish widow's weeds with enough aplomb that she had no need to doubt Darius's words. Still, she gave him a sharp glare and said, " _Flatterer._ "

"Flattery? No, indeed. To what do I owe this honor?"

"It's _Mama,_ " she said pointedly. There was a world contained in that word, and not one Darius wanted to deal with at the moment.

"Ah." Darius had found that to be a profoundly useful syllable over his years away from Persia. One could communicate so much with so little. Just as Irène did with the word _mama._ Or rather, the capitalized _Mama,_ which was still decidedly foreign to Darius's Persian mind _._

"Now, we both know that Monsieur Khan is good for his word, but we're a full two weeks into the month…"

"Ah, yes of course."

"We know the poor man's been sick— all of that awful business at the Garnier."

Darius knew that Irène really was sympathetic, but if there was one thing he didn't want to talk about it was his master's _business at the Garnier._ He set down his packages on the steps and reached into the inner pocket of his coat. "Well, I might be able to take care of this." He pulled out an envelope—not nearly as hefty an envelope as it should have been, in Darius's opinion—with the seal of the Persian Diplomatic Mission.

"Payday?" Irène asked, amused.

More like 'badger a diplomatic aide for hours on end day,' but Darius didn't care to tell Irène about that. He spent a moment quickly considering the household expenses and savings, comparing them with the monies on hand. He pulled out a considerable portion of the envelope's contents, deciding to include most of what would have been his own wages. The Daroga would have been furious—worse, the Daroga would have been _insulted_ —if he knew. But it was Darius's duty to keep the books, and keep his secrets while he was at it. "Last month's, this month's, and next month's, for good measure."

Irène offered him a pout. "I _told_ you we trust Monsieur Khan. Though… Mama will be very happy, to be sure."

"Then three months' rent it will be," Darius offered her the money with something like a flourish. She didn't grin, but her eyes danced.

"Well, then. I think such responsibility should be rewarded. Supper tonight?"

Darius bent down to retrieve his parcels. "Do you remember last time?"

Irène laughed. "Don't worry. Mama's going out. She’ll be gone for, oh, _hours._ Eight o'clock?"

"In that case, certainly. Until tonight—"

"Now, be on your best behavior when you go upstairs. When I was on my way back from Madame Bianchi, I saw a strange man go into visit Monsieur Khan. For all I know, he'll be wanting you to play the proper valet."

"A… _strange_ man?" Darius's blood went cold. It had been well over two weeks since _he_ had come to see the Daroga. Darius had been out running errands, just as he had today, and had returned to find his master sitting dumbly in his chair, staring out the window like an imbecile.

 _He came,_ the Daroga finally whispered after being plied first with tea and then with brandy. _He came, oh God, and he cried._

"Was the man particularly tall?" Darius asked Irène. He could hardly ask, _did he wear a mask and call up the fires of Hell in his wake?_

"Oh, no. Quite short and wearing a blue greatcoat."

"Ah," Darius sighed, "Mifroid. _Again._ Excuse me, Madame."

He took the stairs two at a time to the apartment directly above the landlady's home. He paused at the door, caught his breath, and straightened his shoulders before entering. He could hear the Daroga conversing with Mifroid, commissioner of the police.

The discussion sounded amiable enough, and leisurely. Darius divested himself of his burden and went to put together a tray of old-fashioned Persian hospitality. Dates and almonds served in enameled bowls, anise seed cookies he baked every week with the maid-of-all-work peering over his shoulder, and good, strong tea that could go toe-to-toe with any demitasse of French _café noir_. Thus prepared, he entered the parlor silently.

"…They've set up house in Stockholm," Mifroid said.

"And the Widow Valerius?" the Daroga asked. His tone was mild, but Darius knew his whole attention was on the conversation.

"Residing with them," Mifroid took two of the cookies Darius had just set down and popped them into his mouth one after the other. "The Courts had thought to keep a hold on the Viscount's—rather, the Count's—assets, but it didn't last."

"Oh?" The Daroga asked. It was his ' _ah.'_

"They thought it might compel him back into the country, so that the case could be tied up nicely. Well, it seems the boy—Count, Count, sorry—just found himself a position with the Swedish Royal Shipyard, inheritance be damned. I'll hand it to him: a good man and husband, even if he isn't much for _noblesse oblige._ Anyway, it didn't matter one way or the other. The good Count has two very formidable older sisters with formidable husbands who happen to be interested in Politics. They didn't much care for their wives' good name being touched by scandal or their settlements being tied up. So the entire case has been locked up wholesale."

The Daroga blinked slowly and sipped his tea. "The _entire_ case?"

Mifroid's face lost its 'just-a-social-call' mildness. His dark eyes nearly sparkled. Darius wondered if Mifroid somehow instinctively sensed a colleague, a professional equal, in Nadir Khan. The Daroga never spoke of his former position _here_. (Here, where they thought _Khan_ was a name and not an honorable, ancient title to match any of their timeworn _Comte de —s_ or _Duc de — s.)_ Nevertheless, the commissioner had come to see the Daroga several times, especially after 'that idiot Faure' had dismissed all of the Daroga's testimony concerning the death of Philippe de Chagny. Well, it sounded as though _that_ was moot point now, anyway.

"Oh, yes, the entire case," Mifroid said, "After all, what case is there, now that the former Count merely suffered a fatal misadventure, the kidnapped ingénue is a happy housewife, and all the 'extorted' money returned?"

The Daroga offered a tight smile. "I'll not trot out the old nightmare words."

Mifroid procured two more cookies. "‘Truth and justice,’ eh? A mismatched pair if ever there was one. Harness them to a carriage and watch it charge off a mountaintop. "

"What of the other players in the drama?" the Daroga asked.

"The management of the Garnier is, amazingly, not interested in capitalizing on the gossip." He looked at the Daroga pointedly. "They are also not interested in allowing the police to make a thorough search of the premises. What more is there to do?"

"Darius?" the Daroga turned a little to where Darius silently stood. "There is a box on my dressing table. Please bring it here."

Darius nodded and retrieved it immediately. He returned in time to hear the Daroga explain himself.

"…I had been told to expect a particular delivery." He motioned for Darius to set the box on the low table in front of the commissioner. "It came today."

Mifroid lifted a chary eyebrow, but his curiosity obviously got the better of him. He opened the box and began to lay out its contents. One cut steel shoe buckle. Grey suede gloves, not very small but still ladylike. Two handkerchiefs somewhat shakily embroidered with lilies-of-the-valley and violets. A haphazard stash of papers, some flat, some letter-folded, some tied with girlish ribbons.

Darius recognized the trove from the Daroga's description. To his credit, Mifroid did not require much of an explanation. He thumbed through the papers for a moment before asking, "Christine Daaé's?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps by way of… your old friend?"

"Yes," he said a bit darkly. " _His_ part of the story is well and truly over now."

Mifroid offered nothing beyond a fascinated, "Huh." He spent a moment reading over the papers. "One sees many strange things in my line of work, as you might be able to imagine. But I would have never believed… all of this."

There was something like good humor in the Daroga's voice, but Darius thought it might have actually been something more akin to dreadful, dramatic irony. " _Do_ you believe all of this?"

The commissioner heaved a sigh and took to his feet. "Well, it hardly matters now, does it? I'm afraid I have already taken up much of your time. Farewell, Monsieur Khan."

The Daroga saw the commissioner to the door and shook his hand. After he closed the door, the Daroga turned to Darius. "We have not seen the last of him. I am not sure what he loves more—a fantastical mystery or your baking."

Darius half-smiled in reply before his mind drifted back to the box. "Agha, if _he_ sent the girl's things to you—"

"I know," the Daroga sighed. "I can scarce credit it. Erik. Dead."

 _Erik._ It was the first time in a long, long time that Darius had heard that name aloud. It existed in his mind as more than the sum of its syllables—a nightmare from another world, a memory from someone else's life, a nebulous curse that had followed him since their exile. Nothing really substantial, the substance of the man having long since faded from the reality of Darius's life. Now, it appeared that he had _truly_ faded.

Strange. Truly strange.

"I have a letter for you to post," the Daroga cut through the haze Darius's thoughts. "After you disclose whatever gossip you learned from our countrymen today."

Darius followed the Daroga into his tiny study, giving him a précis of the news from Persia—the Shah still playing Russia and England off on one another even while Ottoman and Egypt fell to European imperialists, the hushing-up of the Ambassador's affair with a French Baroness, and the impending arrival of a new envoy who very much held with the Western way of doing things. The Daroga listened intently, occasionally nodding, as he finished sealing and writing out the address on his letter.

"Only time will tell what will come of any of it," he commented. He blew on the ink on the envelope before handing it to Darius. "I think I might go out tonight. You can manage by yourself, I'm sure."

Darius recalled his appointment with Madame Lantins and nodded. He glanced down at the letter in his hand. It was addressed to the _Époque._ Ah. Of course. He paused at the door, thunderstruck by a stray thought.

"Agha?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think… what I mean to say is, might this not be counted as 'success?'"

"Success?" the Daroga questioned. Darius watched as he found the answer. "Oh. _Success._ A word spoken long ago and far away. That's a thought for another day, my boy."

Darius bowed out then, leaving the Daroga with his thoughts.

 _Do not return without him_ , the Shah had said. Well, _he_ was gone now. Might that not count for something?

Darius knew the answer, in his heart of hearts. One would have thought he would have been reconciled to it, after so many years.

When he exited the apartment, the skies were gloomier and the city greyer than before.

Darius knew that he would probably grow old and die _here,_ but it didn't mean he had to like it.


	36. Is Worth

There was no way around it. Nadir needed a new set of evening clothes.

Not so long ago, he had been in possession of a perfectly serviceable suit made up of very nice black fabric, and worn with a fine white shirt. But in the course of a single night, that perfectly serviceable suit had been all but destroyed. It had started with the abuse of the jacket lapels—grosgrain, in the American fashion—which had been turned and twisted every which way to disguise the brightness of the fine shirt. Thereafter, the suit had been run it, pressed into small hiding places, the jacket repeatedly taken on and off in _the room of mirrors,_ and the whole thoroughly drowned and then dried out again.

Darius, standing ready with his tailor's kit, had despaired over the suit as much as he had rejoiced in its wearer's relatively safe return.

His best suit had not been a matter of concern to Nadir, either on that fateful night or on any of the following nights. Of course, now that he was standing in his _second_ best evening suit—nearly fifteen years old, shiny at the elbows, and with a distressing tendency to pull over the stomach— it was a matter of great concern.

There was nothing for it, alas. Darius had already gone off to finish his errands and then to romance his pretty widow. But even if he had been home, Nadir did not relish another quiet night in. In fact, the very thought of it chaffed badly. He put on his overcoat and scarf, locked the apartment, and hailed a carriage.

He had the cabbie drop him off a little ways before the Avenue de l'Opera met the Boulevard des Capucines and walked the last few blocks. The massive edifice of the Opera Garnier loomed before him. The new electric lighting poured out of the many windows in a flood of pure white. It glinted off the damp sidewalks and damp patrons and caught the gold sentinels of Harmony and Poetry in an artificial inferno.

It was a splendid thing, Charles Garnier's vision of Imperial glory. But there was something in the austere columns—or perhaps the perfect arches—that struck Nadir as sinister. He had seen echoes of those lines a lifetime before. It was Erik: ever the Angel of Death, even if his more recent heavenly guises had lacked such obvious malevolence.

Had that put-on angelic role finally been made reality? Nadir had never been a theologian. He felt, too, that he had long ago lost the right to arbitrate right and wrong. Who was he to say that a monster of darkness in life might not be remade a being of light in death?

If, indeed, Erik _was_ dead. Oh, he had let go of his box of treasures. But to do that, he must have been well enough to make the walk to the post office, and Nadir didn't think that such activity befitted a man moments away from death.

Nadir could not say how long he stood, looking at the Opera. He _should_ go in. He _should_ find his way to the gate on the Rue Scribe, _should_ force his way down to the little lake house. He _should_ look on the corpse, no longer the _Animate Corpse_ , and lay an old responsibility to rest.

 _Erik is dead._ The little Daaé girl would read those very words in the _Époque_ , put there by Nadir's request. And perhaps it was true, or perhaps it would be true tomorrow.

The Daroga, a man made for the execution of duty, would have discharged this one with all proper haste. Difficulties would not have counted for much with him; desire, even less.

Nadir, who had grown too accustomed to his quiet, pointless little life in exile, could claim no such virtue of determination.

"I am a coward," he said aloud, in French.

In the spirit of all great cowards, he turned and walked away with the barest twinge of conscience.

He set a quick pace in the general direction of the Madeleine Church. He shook his head at the memory of Erik declaring that holy place to be the site of his future, rather unholy nuptials.

Clearly, Erik was not a topic that Nadir was going to be rid of easily. He briefly considered stopping into some random café and seeking an elegant anesthetic of some sort. He almost regretted the fact that he was not the sort of man to indulge so.

He eventually sought refuge in a more familiar setting.

The smoky, steamy warmth of the hookah lounge was a welcome respite from the inhospitable weather. Nadir offered polite nods to a few of the regular patrons. They were mostly gentlemen of middling standing in some of the more far-flung embassies that were scattered about the neighborhood. Foreign merchants made a good showing, and the occasional French Orientalist dilettante found be found hanging about the fringes. The smallest collection of was of true expatriates who had left their homes without hope of a return.

Nadir supposed that he must be counted amongst this last grouping, though he found little in common with the others so branded. He was well-liked by the men of standing, who never denied him a game of checkers or a seat at the bar.

A different man, Nadir supposed, would have made such a place his daily haunt. He could not deny the pleasure of listening to his language fall from fluent tongues, nor the interest that must be roused by hearing a familiar name mentioned. But he found the lounge could be nothing more than an occasional escape—enjoyed in the moment, not quite regretted in the aftermath, and forgotten for stretches at a time.

The mere presence of _friendliness_ did not make for real friends, after all, and the display of hospitality could not quite disguise the noisome reality of charity.

But for the moment, Nadir did not mind much. He was in no great hurry to return to his little flat, and so set himself up in a comfortable corner with a good pipe. The lounge filled as the night went on, and Nadir time and again allowed himself to be pulled into some discussion or another. The future of Chinese-French diplomacy was the topic of the hour, though the reappointment of Prince Kamran as War Minister back home was being picked apart in some quarters, and the economic ramifications of the assassination of the American president some weeks before was a matter of interest for a few.

It was nearing midnight when Nadir thought to bestir himself to catch a carriage home. He was thwarted when Masood, the personal attaché to the Persian ambassador, strolled in. By chance, they had arrived in France around the same time and had been peripheral participants in each other's lives for many years.

"Daroga," Masood inclined his head with vague diffidence before arranging himself on the couch nearest Nadir, "I heard that your man was in the office today. My wife tells me that good servants are impossible to find. I tell her she's never met good old Daryush."

"I value his loyalty and long years of service," Nadir replied mildly, settling in for another long chat. What did it matter, at any rate? What early appointment had he to keep? Who was waiting on Nadir Khan anymore?

"One of the reasons I would never try to lure him to our staff," Masood said, "the other being that my wife would probably fire him within the month, no matter how skilled he was. Frenchwomen are so fickle. No matter. I didn't see Darius today, or would have sent my greetings."

Nadir waved this away. "I am not surprised you did not see him. I had heard that there was quite a lot of activity today."

This was all the invitation Masood needed to launch into a recital of his professional woes. Never mind Egypt and never mind the naughty baroness—it was the Shah's new envoy that had caused the most consternation. Reza Gholi Khan was man intent on turning the world on its ear, Masood insisted. A cunning fox who had assumed the mantle of an aged dandy—and carrying an entire folio of sealed instructions from the Shah to boot. It was enough to drive a man _mad._

" _And_ he brought his wife, _"_ Masood continued without letup. "He just handed her down from the carriage like it was nothing in the world! Introduced her to the senior staff at the Embassy! And there she was, all corseted and heeled and wearing a net veil over this little velvet turban—as if _that_ was proper hajib!"

Nadir did not resist poking a bit of fun at his agitated acquaintance. "I'm sure your wife would be gratified to hear you say such a thing."

"You don't understand. She isn't some European like my Sophie—he brought his wife from _Tehran."_

"Then I am scandalized," Nadir commented.

"No, you are not. Nor am I, truth be told. It is a tactical move of great genius on Reza's part." He finally admitted, "I am annoyed that I did not think of it. Mark me, _la Khatoun_ will do very well in society. Not a great beauty, here or there, but she has pretty manners and Reza will show her off to great advantage, I'm sure."

"Is her father someone?" Nadir asked.

"What good father would give his daughter over to such a scheme?" Masood shrugged. "No, she's a nobody back home, though I'm sure her husband will make her somebody here." Masood took a long drag from his pipe and seemed to be settling into a contented silence. "What of you, Daroga? What have you been up to these past few weeks?"

 _What he had been busy with for the past several weeks_ was something Nadir had absolutely no desire to discuss. He made his excuses and his escape in good order.

In a prodigious waste of his pocket money, Nadir directed the carriage driver back to the Palais Garnier. The very last of the straggling subscribers were leaving and the earlier brilliance of the white lights had dimmed to little more than a shadow.

It was a shadow that would haunt Nadir—if he allowed it to.

" _Forgive our dead and our living,_ " Nadir murmured, " _our present and our absent."_

Tomorrow, he would not run away. Tomorrow, he would face Erik.


	37. The Bowed Head

It was seldom indeed that Erik felt let down by his own talents, but he thought he might now have just cause for complaint on that score.

For as long as he could remember, he had been called a playfellow of death. Killer. Corpse. Ghost. What else could you call a man with a skeleton face?

He had thought it right to dabble in death, given his natural inclination towards it. How could it not be his calling? Oh, music had ever been his life, but in his youth he had always seen death as his destiny. He had cultivated talents to match his professed profession. He knew a dozen ways to kill a man—a hundred ways to _nearly_ kill a man.

And so he had thought, foolishly, that death would simply come for him when asked for. Some said death was the only reliable thing in life—and they had had such a long history together, after all. Why shouldn't Death come politely and on time, like an old friend? But Erik had never had the luxury of relying on anyone, or anything.

He sat in the shattered midst of his torture chamber. Alive.

Alive.

His blood painted edges of the broken glass, enough blood to fill a man's body.

The skin on his wounded arms and hands and feet said, _we have closed over worse._

He could not remember the last food or drink he had partaken of.

His stomach said, _we have seen longer famines._

His heart had stopped. He _knew_ it had stopped, once, a hundred times.

It beat now, and said, _I have been torn to shreds and drowned in blood. I have survived. Erik will survive. You will survive._

And so, entirely against his will, Erik was alive.

His body betrayed him. Death betrayed him. Christine—

—was innocent.

Oh, her name burned his tongue and her voice branded his heart. But that was not her fault. Now was it?

He sat up. He pushed himself first to his knees, and then to his feet. He stepped. He stepped again. He stepped out of the destroyed room of mirrors found his way into his parlor. He knocked the ostrich egg off the mantle as he passed by. He saw her everywhere. He ate. He cleaned himself. He bound his wounds. He looked through his poisons and put them away. He dressed. He looked for his favorite mask and remembered that he had burnt it, oh, ages ago. No. No, _she_ had burned the mask. One of so many pitch-perfect lies, so many consummate acting choices.

_Show me your face without fear._

It was funny how, preoccupied as Erik was by her immaculate voice, he failed to notice what a wonderful actress Christine was. He should have known when he coached her through Marguerite. Angels might have sat enraptured by her voice, but he thought it might have been her eyes that ensnared the audience.

_If I tremble, it is because of your genius._

_She_ could have been the genius of her generation. They could have built something that outlasted them both. Her name could have been immortal. Erik would have seen to it, if only he had been allowed to be at her side. At her side, as she had promised.

_I will come back._

* * *

It had been three days since Erik had posted his precious box of mementos to the Daroga, had destroyed his room of mirrors in a fit of rage and despair unlike anything he had succumbed to these last twenty years, and laid down to die.

Those three days seemed to hold an eternity between them, both in the moment and in memory. Yet the newspaper before him simply read _December 7_ _th_ _, 1881._ He thumbed through its pages without interest. Headlines had no meaning while his mind was riddled with _her_. He thought back over how long it had been since Christine had left, how long he had trained her, how long that he had even known her. The answers to all of those questions were as shockingly short as _three_ _days_ had been _._ In less than half a year, he had remade his entire life around her. In less than half a week, it was unmade.

He found that he could not blame her deception. Looking back, Erik did not know how he had mistaken a desperate ploy for her to win her freedom and safety as an act of love. After all, 'desperate ploy' was something he had pulled out many, many times in his life. He supposed it was his own blind perspective. He had not meant her any harm, so why should she have felt like she was in harm's way?

But she had felt herself in danger, and had used every skill at her command to stay safe. He understood, utterly and terribly.

He found his anger—that well of rage that drove him and that he had long thought inexhaustible—had run dry. And yet, he was alive. Something must have fueled his body against his soul. But what? And how to harness it? How to go on?

In the end, it was very simple. Just as at the first, he merely stood. He let his feet take him to the necessary places and his hands grasp the needed things. He took hold of the broom and dustpan from his storage room, and he swept the shards of double-sided mirror into neat piles. He bent and picked up the pages of _Don Juan Triumphant_ that had strayed from their fellows. He aired out the cellar, still wet and filled with ruined gunpowder. Where had he even found so much gunpowder? And when? And why?

The thought trickled in that he should simply pack his valuables and leave. His kingdom was in ruins. His palace was no longer his haven. He had nothing left at the Garnier. Why did that all seem so familiar?

Another page of _Don Juan_ 's score caught his attention, and he moved to grab it. He knew each line intimately, and a brief glance was all that was needed to fill his mind with the music. It could not have been more real if he had stood conducting it before a full orchestra.

"I should have known you were not dead."

The words came to Erik as though he was asleep. The siren had said nothing of a visitor. But he trusted his ears, and turned.

The Daroga stood and the entrance of the room. He was holding his hand up, and one might have believed he was simply rubbing away a headache. Erik had certainly seen him do so many times before. But he knew the posture, the meaning of the bent elbow and raised hand. It meant, _I do not trust you._

Erik wanted to tell him that he had nothing in his pockets, no lasso secreted in this room of horrors. He wanted to tell him that, even if he had had a length of catgut in his very hand, he would not have wanted to use it. But he was tired, and frustrated. Nadir should have known, anyway.

The Daroga took a step closer. "Well? Do have nothing to say for yourself?"

What was there possibly left to say? He turned away from the Daroga and added the loose paper in his hand to the stack he had set aside. He wondered how long it would take to put them back in order. He wondered if he should even bother.

"She is out of your reach, you know. Your Daaé girl? You will not find her."

"Good." Erik's unused voice cracked with the effort of that one word. Oh, he knew that the Daroga was wrong. Lackeys could always be bribed. Train schedules could always be dug up. Everyone lost could be found, if you had a nose for blood as strong as Erik's. But it was a reassuring thought that Christine had eluded his grasp, and that nothing he could do would ever bring her back. He did not want her back—not as something to be dragged and caged and coerced. And since that seemed to be the only way to keep her, he did not want her.

Truly.

(And if he kept on reminding himself of that fact, perhaps it would become truer still.)

Erik could feel the Daroga's stare burning into his back. He ignored it. The old man had not changed much over the years. Erik sensed the beginning of a monologue, and found it oddly comforting.

"I spent many years tracking you after you left Persia. It took me strange places, and into the company of strange people. I went to Turkey, and to Vietnam. I went to Russia, and wound my way to end up in France. I started in Paris, but I also found myself in other cities—like _Rouen_. I pieced together more of your history than you ever deigned to share with me. And I spoke with many. I heard of the masked man who helped so and so, and the masked man who hurt so and so." The Daroga was closer now, within an arm's reach. Erik caught the rustle of his overcoat as the Daroga lowered his arm. "Among the many facts I discovered was one that struck me as particularly strange. There are people who liked you."

Erik's breath huffed out in a sound that was not quite a laugh.

"Oh, I am not saying there were many. And, God knows, those few were scattered far and wide. But that told me something I had never really known before. Somewhere, you could have made a life for yourself."

" _I?_ " Erik spun around and stood up to come face to face with the Daroga. He gestured sharply to his face. " _I_ could have made a life for myself? Tell me, Daroga, do you think it pleased me to design my little lakeside cottage? Oh, it is a cozy place, to be sure. Erik's parlor is as snug as you please, and music room is splendid, and I took such care with the veranda. Did you see the reliefs on window boxes? I carved them myself." He lifted his hands to the ceiling. "How could I have been anything but pleased to build my little country retreat _underground?_ "

The Daroga was undaunted. "I know that Charles Garnier respected your abilities. I know that ordinary men paid you to build ordinary houses before you decided to come hide here."

"And you also know," Erik said conversationally, "that the Shah of Persia once tried to gouge my eyes out."

It was Nadir's turn to not-quite laugh, and Erik wondered when his sense of humor had turned macabre. "I found out one more thing, Erik, as I… searched for you." Erik heard the word the Daroga had edited out: _hunted._ "I know how old you are."

What inconsequential thing to bring up! Erik wanted the mock the Daroga and his useless facts. Instead, he said: "I doubt that. There are no records at the church. No baptisms, no christenings." He had checked, oh, ages ago.

"No. But there are people. People you did not care to try to speak to, but who I did. And when you speak to enough people, and the same year is repeated time and again, well—let us say, I am fairly confident I know your exact age. But I am human, and could be wrong."

"Words, words, infinite words.

"I will not tell you, unless you ask me directly," the Daroga continued mildly. "However, I will tell you this: you are very near the age I was when first I met you. Do you know what that means?"

"That I have wasted more of my life knowing you than you have knowing me?" Erik's words seemed to roll off the Daroga, like rain on a duck. His green eyes narrowed in amusement.

"It means you are not too old to start over."

Erik did not reply. They stood facing one another for some brief interval, before the Daroga backed out of the room. He mentioned things like checking in on Erik in a day or two, or allowing Erik to come into his home. He asked if Erik needed anything, but did not wait for Erik to find his tongue enough to answer. He eventually left Erik in peace. Or, at least, alone.

He was not alone for long. Christine's voice, playing Marguerite once again, pressed against his ear.

_Why are your hands red with blood? Go away—you horrify me!_

* * *

Nadir was not hobbling. He was taking the stairs to his apartment at a dignified pace. He had no appointments to keep. And so, if his steps were slow, and his hand heavy on the bannister, what did it matter? He let himself in, and found Darius just entering the parlor from the other side with tea. His manservant looked like he had seen a ghost—surely, there had been no premonition of Erik's survival?

Darius exclaimed as soon as he saw Nadir, and he realized there was another visitor in the room. His mind flitted quickly to a grand carriage he had seen idling near the building that he had dismissed as unimportant, and wondered if _that_ may have conveyed the figure sitting with her back to him.

She turned as the door closed and stood. He had no eye for women's clothing, but she seemed to him to be very fashionable. Nothing besides the deep wine color and the fine paisley lining of her caplet suggested 'Persian.' It was a wholly European look, from tall beribboned hat to the line of buttons down the tight bodice to the laced boots to the red gloves. She had lifted one of those gloved hands up, and Nadir stared at it dumbly.

"Forgive my impropriety," she said, not dropping her hand, "but I've been told I need to practice my handshake more."

He blinked. He knew he must have looked a fool, but he thought that might be excused. He was no longer a young man, and had had many shocks to his system of late. But he reached out and clasped her slim fingers for a moment, he could scarcely credit that there was warmth emanating from beneath the leather.

"So," he said at length, "you are the wife from Tehran that the new envoy handed out of a carriage and introduced to any and every one, giving all of our poor countrymen a shock."

"Yes, that would be me." They both sat back down. Darius served the tea and then stood gawking by the door. Mojgan gave him a warm smile and motioned for him to sit down. He sank into a chair at the side of the room, looking like a puppet cut from his strings. Nadir imagined he looked much the same.

"Do I want to know how you ended up here?" Nadir asked.

"Ah. It was Maryam." She sipped her tea. "She took to matchmaking. Is that enough of an explanation?"

Nadir found himself laughing. "Yes, I suppose so. You married Reza? I remember him of old. I am not surprised he has forged an unconventional path for himself—and for you." His eyes strayed from his visitor, taking in his shabby-genteel rooms. "Does he know you have come here?"

"You are not _quite_ persona non grata at the embassy," Mojgan said matter-of-factly. The Latin phrase fell almost as easily from her lips as the Farsi. "Those who know you are embarrassed that they have not done more to be of service of you. Otherwise, you are just a name on a list of beneficiaries, neither good nor ill." She traced the same pattern around the room as Nadir had a moment ago. "It may do you well to have… a cousin looking out for your interests."

"I do not know how many will be quick to believe we are still cousins, with your remarriage."

"I say they will believe it," she declared. "Why should they not?" The Shah himself could not have issued a more authoritative fiat. Nadir observed her closely.

"How long have you… been away?"

She shrugged. "Some years. First closer to home, and then farther afield. Turkey first, and then England for a good while, and Italy until just a month ago." She took a sip of tea. "I don't know how easy it will be to go back, but I do not need to think too deeply on that just yet." She spent a moment looking at Nadir, as if trying to see her old friend in an older face. "Do I want to know how _you_ ended up here?"

"What, do you not know?" Nadir chuckled. "I will give you a hint." He lifted a hand and covered his face.

"So, that _is_ true," she murmured. "The Shah is not one to forget."

"No."

"Did… did you find him?"

Nadir caught Darius bowing his head respectfully. "Yes, I did." He kept an eye on Darius. "I just came from speaking with him."

"Erik? Here?" Nadir didn't have time to see how his manservant had taken the news. He was dazzled by the radiance of Mojgan's smile. She had lost all her cosmopolitan polish for moment and simply… beamed. He found it unfathomable.

"Do you not recall who Erik was? What he did?" Nadir demanded, once the stardust had gotten out of his eyes.

"Yes. When you saved my life, he took me to safety." She said this with such equanimity that Nadir nearly felt like his world had tipped on its side. For that—that!—to be someone's memory of Erik, their overriding impression! He took advantage of the kinship she had just claimed with him, and offered his most reproving glare.

"That, true. But he did much harm besides." He took a sip of his tea. "And he has continued to do so."

She looked more pensive at that. "I am sorry to hear that, at least. But I should still like to see him. We parted friends, and, God knows, we none of us have many of those to our credit."

Nadir wanted to look at this woman, so utterly self-assured and straightforward, and demand _what have you done with my little Mojgan-joon?_ But he found that more he looked at her, the more he saw that girl he had once know. That girl with the painted eyebrows, the quiet dry humor, the composure in the face of death and dishonor. Oh, yes. There she was, in his parlor, drinking tea and eating a cookie as if they had gone back in time twenty years. Perhaps that what had actually taken Nadir by surprise—how much time had passed, and how little she had altered.

"Is he well?" she asked, and brought Nadir back to the present.

"He is Erik."

She laughed at that, and Nadir could only shake his head. "In that case, he will be pleased that I have years of piano practice at my fingertips, and am not so much of a disgrace as once I was. I may even challenge him to a duet."

"I am afraid that he is recovering from… an imbroglio."

"That is to be expected, if he is, as you say, still Erik."

Nadir thought that somewhere, his temper was fraying. Somewhere in his brain, he was composing a thorough indictment of Erik, as a man, a monster, and a maniac. He wanted to shake Mojgan from her casual complacency, to remind her that the hours whiled away at Mazandaran were made rosy with blood. But he was old now, and tired beside. Still, he could not resist some little dig—though only Erik would have fully grasped it, and he was not present to hear it. "Perhaps you are right. I was asking too much that he behave in a manner befitting his _advanced_ age."

She shook her and smiled, and they spoke more of Nadir until the clock on the mantle chimed. Mojgan glanced at it with regret and stood. "There is a reception tonight, and you would not believe how long it takes to get into evening dress, even with an army of maids."

Nadir stood with her. She lifted up her hand again, and he held it, wishing for a moment that he might embrace her instead. Those years had passed. "I am honored by your visit, Khanum."

She laughed at that, a genuine peel of unabashed amusement. "Oh, indeed? I mean to make myself a nuisance to you, cousin. I will come again on Monday, if I may, and would be much obliged if you could persuade Erik to be there as well." Her merriment faded with Nadir's scoff, but her eyes remained bright. "I do wonder if, when a life has been so very filled as Erik's—or yours—or—" a self-deprecating smile here—"mine even… if time and advancing age means something rather different than it usually does. I wonder if perhaps the blood sometimes rushes backwards, instead of forwards, and we forget ourselves in the effort to forget time."


	38. Of a Moment's

Dear Shadi,

Le Havre was grey. Our ship seemed to laze into port, cutting through a fine mist that might have counted as rain. Tiny droplets rested over my cashmere coat, and when I breathed in, the cold and the damp and the grey rested in my lungs. I did not find my first look at France particularly inspiring. There were the neat wide boulevards just beyond the piers, the neat colonnaded buildings, the lampposts and shrubby trees at neat distances, too.

I did not know why were in Le Havre to begin with. We had been in Italy for the summer, and it would have seemed reasonable to me if we had sailed and then put ashore at Marseille. Instead, we had transversed three seas, a strait, a bay, and a channel to land in this dreary port. But I had come to realized that everything in my life was at the mercy of Politics, and therefore Bureaucracy—and there was no point in trying to make sense of bureaucracy. But I loved the other parts of my life—the new places, foods, languages, music, art, even peoples—enough that I suffered the insanity with only a handful of complaints.

Reza looked pleased with what he surveyed. He had grown out his moustache to magnificent proportions during the voyage to France, and it exaggerated his smile almost to the point of parody.

"I mean to look a fool when I arrive in Paris," he had told me, "so when I sack the whole lot of the counselors, they won't know if they should murder me or just laugh in my face."

Now he merely commented, "not too cold, ma belle, do you think?"

"I've been colder," I replied truthfully. But I still pulled the fox fur collar of my coat a little closer. Paris was a different sort of assignment than I had hitherto accompanied Reza on. He was usually the man to present the best of Persia to foreign powers, all genial conversation and hospitality. He made friends, entertained and was entertained in return by the powerful and influential. We were, in a word, socialites.

But this French Republic was of little interest to the Shah, who found himself more comfortable with the Empress of India. And so it was not Reza's directive to make himself charming to the French. He was coming to clean house.

We spent a night at Le Havre, where Reza conferred with a trusted aide he had sent ahead. All of the men in Reza's retinue were grim-faced when we set off for Paris the next morning. I was not neglected in these arrangements: I do not hesitate to say that Reza probably spent more time consulting with my seamstresses and dressers than I did. He selected my travel clothes with the utmost care.

"We," he declared, "are making a statement."

"We are always making a statement," I replied. And if there was one thing I did not care for in my new life, it was that feeling of being a walking advertisement first and a person second. Or, if not a person, perhaps a doll. I consoled myself knowing that we were Helping the Empire (a very cold comfort,) and that at least Reza had good taste. I couldn't even object to the Europeans fashions: a corset is a marvelous thing for a woman approaching forty.

Being married to Reza was like being married to Feridoon in one way, and one way only: it came with a role to play. Feridoon liked me quiet and watchful; Reza liked me engaging and provocative. Both men took pains to impress upon me how utterly vital it was that I _stay_ in my assigned character.

 _Make sure they do not notice you,_ Feridoon said.

 _Make sure they see you,_ Reza said.

I took this as a simple matter of course. I had spent a life time being whatever the people around me needed me to be: a bookkeeper, a hostess, a refuge, a babysitter, a teacher, a representative. It was only as I approached middle age that I started to be troubled by the question: who am I, Mojgan, alone? Perhaps it was the immediacy of that state that loomed large in my mind. Childless, and with a husband twice my age, _alone_ was my certain fate sooner or later.

Alone did not bother me. I knew that from experience. But by the time we drove into Paris, a nascent notion had taken root in my mind. It couldn't be the _same_ alone.

That idea stayed suspended in its infancy for the time being. As Reza had so accurately declared, we had a statement to make. And make it we did. The stares I received from the embassy staff were infinitely more indecent than the laced and buttoned and gloved outfit I wore, which did not reveal a sliver of skin below my jawline. I kept my hand fastened on the crook of Reza's elbow as we walked the offices, greeted the staff, and even as we sat down to drink tea.

Reza's statement was, clearly, _I do as I please._ He was glittering and biting and charming, until the moment we crossed the threshold into our private leased house alone. He then forwent the glitter and bite, though I'm not sure he would have known how to turn off the charm even if he had wanted to.

"Magnificent, ma belle," he said, with a quick kiss on the cheek. "On their ears, the lot of them. Supper? Yes, supper." He kept up his usual stream of observations and analysis at the dinner table, only asking occasionally for my thought or opinion. "Incidentally, my dear—" which meant he was very deliberately bringing up a subject—"I stumbled across—" he had ferreted out—"a name that may—" certainly— "be of interest to you."

I was all attention, and that was how I learned Nadir was in Paris. Nadir was essentially a private citizen, though it was understood that he had come to Paris under orders from the Shah.

"I recognize genteel exile when I see it," Reza commented. "I don't think the man's imperial pension has been adjusted since 1850." In spite of that, Reza had no objection to me renewing my acquaintance with my ersatz cousin, and was surely already coming up with how the connection could be an asset instead of a liability. And so, in between society teas and state balls, I found time to slip away to a little apartment sandwiched in amongst far grander neighbors.

When I first saw Nadir after all of those years, with his noble face settled into heavy lines and his kind eyes into melancholy, an unexpected feeling assailed me.

I felt as if I had come home. I had never been in this city before, in these rooms, but when I stretched out my hand in greeting, I was almost overwhelmed by a sense of sweet familiarity. My return to Ghazvin all those years ago had come with no such comfort. I think Nadir felt it, as well—and perhaps even the faithful Darius, who had also been so good to me all those years ago. Within moments, we were speaking as if the intervening decades had been mere days.

I learned of his 'genteel exile.' Even his exasperation with Erik was a comfortable old thing. For my part, I had long abandoned the idea that I might see Erik again. Occasionally, over the years, I would picture him in some ingeniously snug seaside cottage, with his music to comfort him, the sunrise to greet him, new and clever friends to keep him company, and a little ruby ring to remind him of trials overcome.

To learn that my comfortable little daydream had not materialized for him was disappointing, though no great surprise. The surprise was that in just a few days, I would see my old friend again. And for all Nadir would scowl and chastise, I did think of Erik as a friend—and a good, loyal one at that.

It was convenient that Reza was willing to spin my kinship with Nadir to his advantage. But as I left Nadir that first day, with a promise of meetings to come, I knew that it did not matter to me that Reza continued to be supportive. If he told me the next day that I had to cut the erstwhile Daroga off completely, I would have publically submitted and privately worked a new way around. Not that I could ever see Reza doing so. He liked a challenge too much, and if Nadir became inconvenient, he would enjoy puzzling out a solution. But life had already dealt me so many surprises so as to make me wary of expectations. It was wise to decide how to play the game, howsoever the cards might fall.

I had lost Nadir and Erik once before. I was not willing to do so a second time.

I did not have a chance to confer with Reza immediately after my visit with Nadir. There were receptions aplenty to attend, even if Reza's attentions were turned internally. That particular one was hosted by the British ambassador, so extra finesse was required of us. I don't quite recall what I wore that night, though it was undoubtedly Parisian couture. But I recall my jewelry—it was a stunning turquoise and diamond parure that had come from my time with Feridoon. As each element of the set was put on, the earrings, the broach, the bracelets, the hair comb, the necklace, I felt the weight of the Shah's court bearing down on me once again. No one would have seen the difference in my face or comportment, but I was alert in a way I had not been for many years.

We took a carriage with one of the most senior aides and his French wife, and kept up an easy flow of conversation. At the reception, we circulated and I danced with a half dozen different men under Reza's wryly benevolent eye. And all the while, a small part of my brain was lingering on Nadir and Erik, and the determination to keep them safe from whatever phantom dangers lurked. When at last it was just Reza, fiddling with his watch chain, chatting in my dressing room, I found myself unusually reticent with him. Oh, I spoke of Nadir in cheerful tones, thanking my husband, and informing him of my forthcoming visit.

But Erik… I did not breathe a word of Erik.

There was no black mark attached to Nadir's name, beyond the caprices of a capricious monarch. We were far from Court, and no one knew of what he had done in those last days in Mazandaran. But there would be no way for anyone, not even so consummate a diplomat as Reza, to put the Angel of Death in a good light. After all these years, was in possible that I might bring danger and destruction on Erik's head? I could not do that, any more so than I could bear to give him up again.

So, wearing Feridoon's jewels, I put on Feridoon's wife once more. I used my discretion, and I did not speak. It was safer for everyone.

When Monday came, and I once again took a carriage to the Rue di Rivoli, I found myself wondering if I was being selfish. Perhaps by claiming Nadir as family, I was putting him in danger? Who knew how much Nadir had elected not to tell Tehran over the years? Would I bring unwanted attention to him now? And there was Erik to think of, as well. Who knew how many enemies still lurked in the shadows for him that I may now be shining a light for. And for what? Because I held them in affection? One does not knowingly put the people they care about in harm's way. I had half-way determined, as I stepped up to the apartment, that perhaps the best thing I could do was simply ask Reza to use his sway to improve on Nadir's financial situation—from a safe distance. _Hello, my friends; goodbye, my dears._ I had done so before.

I could hear raised voices as I walked up to the door, and that too was a familiar comfort. Darius let me in, and Nadir and Erik fell silent.

I smiled at Nadir, but then turned all my attention to Erik. I didn't think it possible, but something about his dark, conservative morning suit made him look even taller and leaner than he had in the old mishmash of western-and-eastern attire. His mask was not so fierce anymore, but rather a beautifully sculpted art piece that finished the story the sharp bones of his face began. But he still hunched his shoulders uncertainly, and tilted his head like a bird, and the light still caught his eye in a golden glint.

I reached out my hand to him, and, after a moment, he took it. At first he did not speak to me, but rather looked to Nadir.

"Strange days, Daroga, aren't these?"

Indeed they were. And they would grow stranger still.

Until next time,

_Mojgan Khanum_


	39. Pain

"I need a drink," Nadir said, as he closed the door after Mojgan's departure. If Nadir's memory served him correctly, he had never actually said those _precise_ words before. Nonetheless, Darius disappeared with the tea tray and reappeared the next moment with a bottle of brandy and a snifter. Nadir stared at it for a moment, and then looked back at Darius. " _You_ need a drink, as well."

Again, Darius silently departed the room, and when he returned was holding another glass.

The two men, only ostensibly master and servant at this point, sat across from one another, and drank.

"Did you know," Nadir started up conversationally, "that I very nearly made the mistake of thinking her insipid when Feridoon brought her to wife."

Darius snorted. "And I used to think of her 'Lady Gornafarid' in my head."

"'A warlike maid, firm in the saddle, and practiced in the fight,'" Nadir quoted. "All true, but not _quite_ in the same style." He chuckled. "You were always a bit prone to being overawed by good birth, Darius."

The look on Darius's face suggested those days had long since passed. "He is still alive, then?"

"Oh, very much so," Nadir took the turn of conversation in stride. "In spite of himself, as usual." He rubbed at his face absently. "Perhaps he really was a sorcerer, after all." He glanced across the sitting room. "To think— _Mojgan_ sipping tea in the very same spot Erik had declared his imminent death so very recently. I never used to believe in fate. But…" Nadir wondered at his loose tongue. But what was the point of staying quiet anymore?

"Will you go see him again?" Darius asked. "Like Lady Mojgan asked?"

"Of course," Nadir said. "For no other reason than I have nothing better to do."

Darius nodded sagely, and refilled their brandies.

* * *

This time, Nadir did not put off the interview. With a faint headache and faint displeasure, he set out once more for Erik's home in Opera cellars. There was a small boat he had moored on the far side of the lake, tucked into the shadows. He dragged it into the waters for a second time in that day, and paddled softly towards where he knew the flat was.

Nadir could not help but be wary of the inky blackness of the water. He could never forget his first, ill-fated attempt to gain access to Erik's home. The iron of Erik's grasp pulling him down, the chill of the water. It was pure luck that in surprise he had exclaimed a simple _nakon!_ like one might say to a naughty child before he was submerged. It had been enough to jar Erik into recognition.

 _Why do you try to enter my home uninvited?_ He had raged once they were ashore, both soaked. _Oh, you saved my life once, Daroga. And why? To meddle and make me miserable? It's enough to make me forget the good you may have done for me all those years ago. Is that what you want? For me to forget? I will, and gladly! But then what will become of you if your try this nonsense again? You know that no one can hold Erik back—least of all Erik!_

Nadir had distracted him—asked him about his new trick for staying under water so long. It worked like a pressure valve might to alleviate pent-up steam, allowing Erik to chat merrily and direct his thoughts _away_ from killing intruders. Nadir had listened, interested enough in the technicalities, but also painfully aware that Erik had not changed. Years had passed, and Erik had not improved.

 _I traded my life for yours,_ he wanted to say, _and this is what you have done with it?_

Well, if Erik had not changed, then Nadir would not either. Erik let him go; Nadir hounded his steps and tried to keep him from trouble—or at least, keep tabs on his trouble.

It seemed they were never to be rid of each other.

Nadir supposed that the only siren's call threatening to drown him today was his own memory. He shook his head and tried to gather his wits. When he at last arrived at the cottage, he hesitated, let his raised hand fall, and knocked at the front door.

There was a long wait, a shuffle behind the door, and then Erik appeared. _He_ still had a well-maintained and well-tailored set of evening wear, Nadir noted somewhat sourly. The white tie was crisp, and in his hand he carried a top hat with a somewhat pronounced brim.

Nadir had no doubt that Erik's eyebrows were raised high beneath the mask. "What, twice in one day, old man? I am touched." He sounded anything but.

"I need to talk to you," Nadir said shortly. Actually, the more he thought of what he needed to discuss, the more it rankled him. He was about to push past Erik, but checked himself. "Though perhaps I should ask what it is _you_ are up to. You're looking rather more put together than you were earlier."

"You mean, what mischief have I enacted since noon?" Erik said drily. "I decided to go to the opera."

"Are you not yet sick of _Faust?_ "

"Prodigiously. I'm going to the Comique to take in _Freischütz_ _._ " Erik huffed. "As you so graciously pointed out earlier, I am not so old as to be in my dotage—the same cannot be said for you— so believe me when I say, I can make my way to and from an opera without unmitigated disaster striking." A beat. "Well. I've managed it before, but it's been a while."

Nadir shook his head. "Somehow, it is just as upsetting when you take my advice as when you ignore it. But let me in, Erik—I have news." A calculating look lit up Erik's eyes, and Nadir realized he was probably estimating the amount of time it would take his message via the _Époque_ to reach its intended recipient. He shut that line of thought down swiftly. "It has nothing to do with _that_ business. It's far stranger."

Was it Nadir's imagination, or did the mask look incredulous? Nevertheless, Erik flourished his top hat off and stepped aside for Nadir to enter. "I am agog." This, too, sounded quite flippant.

There was one thing to be said for Erik: he was not an idle man. Already, the public rooms of his home were neater than they had been earlier in the day. If not for the strange, musty smell of acrid gunpowder drowning in stagnant water that still lingered, Nadir might be able to separate what had happened here scant weeks ago. Erik must have caught the train of Nadir's thoughts, for he grumbled and threw his hat onto a chair with unnecessary force.

"The only hidden danger here now, Daroga, is the one that stands plainly before you," he said. "I think I can forbear to spare your life a little longer."

"Thanks," Nadir replied, and sat. He realized suddenly that he had been running on adrenaline for the past… well, weeks, but especially hours. His life had suddenly pulled him back twenty years, but, alas, his body did not suddenly regenerate into the strength he had had in his forties. Moreover, words had abandoned him.

 _Someone wants to see you_ , would only conjure up visions of the pale soprano.

 _I want you to come to my apartment this Monday_ , would no doubt set up Erik's hackles.

With Erik's stare weighing heavily on him, he started slowly. "Mojgan is in Paris."

Erik was silent.

Nadir let the silence stretch, but eventually had to break it. "Mojgan. My cousin's wife."

More silence.

"She has remarried a man in the foreign service and he brought her here. She visited, and when she found out you were also in Paris, asked to see you." Silence. "Do not ask me why, but she remembers you fondly." Silence _again_ , and not an eyelash batted or head tilted to indicate Erik had heard a single word said. Nadir stared back. "Erik. You do _remember_ Mojgan, don't you?"

Just when he thought there would be no reply forthcoming, Erik stood. Slowly, almost stately. He picked up his hat. He did not put it back on, but rather walked to the entrance of the parlor and set it carefully on top of a coat stand. "Erik thinks you should go now, Daroga." He made to go further into the house, but paused. "You may show yourself out. There are no more trapdoors to be fearful of _here._ " He left Nadir alone then, with only a laugh echoing after him.

Nadir recognized that laugh. It made his blood freeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are more than the usual typos, blame it on the migraine I've had for the last five days.


	40. And If For Wine

For the first night in months, Erik did not dream of Christine.

There had been a time when his dreams of her had been pleasant, pretty lullabies to sweeten his sleep and then brighten his morning. Those days had long passed. It would probably be more appropriate to now call his somnolent conjurings of Christine _nightmares._ Wine had not put them to rest. Neither had laudanum, which he detested in any event and had only turned to out of desperation. He would not have bothered, if he had known it simply took one conversation with the Daroga to turn his mind elsewhere.

That was not to say he had a good night's rest. He awoke in the early hours of Sunday, in cold sweat, with the smell of rosewater and blood stuck in his nose.

Did he remember, the Daroga had asked.

Did he _remember?_

What a singularly foolish question. What a… complicated answer.

There were other Christines to be found in France: tall or short, fair or dark, or even (as he had experienced) a seraph fallen to earth. But other Mojgans? Erik had only ever met one. But for all that, he could not pull up a true picture of her in his head. The image of flying eyebrows and sweeping lashes was too close to a memory of heat rashed cheeks, which was too close to mirrors, which was—

Soft cashmere sleeves brushing over henna-tipped fingers reminded him of long walks in dark woods, and the woods led to—

But it was that smell, that smell of jasmine and spices, that he especially could not bear. He could almost see the outline of her sitting in her walled garden, with her dark tea and marzipan-stuffed dates, and her mild, mild smile. It was a beguiling thought, a sketch waiting to be colored in and fleshed out on canvas. But then the _other_ scent of flowers, the rosewater smell, the one laced with the hookah and the harem, would intrude and overtake him. _She_ would come, and she never would allow Erik to look at Mojgan with kindness.

He had to turn away from _that_ , as quickly as he could.

_Do you know Feridoon Ali Jah? Ah, but did you know he has a wife?_

No, he would not allow that memory to arise.

He lay in bed for an untold age. He was suddenly irked by his windowless, sunless room under the Garnier. He had tried to conjure up sunlight for his underground home, but he accepted that experiment as a failure. For years and years, the darkness had instead soothed him—he was a creature of shadows, no doubt, and felt safe hidden from the open air and the penetrating light. But it was no longer quite so safe, was it? Oh, even given the _thorough_ attention of the police and the opera management, no one beyond the Daroga had been able to entirely find their way to his cottage. And while they had lost interest for _now…_

For now, he wished he could glance out a window and see if the stars were still out or if the sun had made its first appearance.

_May I suggest that pianos_ _are better companions than sultanas?_

Another memory to reject, not much better than the first.

Yesterday, he had had a whole list of things he was going to do. But that list started with a celebratory—well, perhaps, _commemorative—_ trip to the opera. If he was supposed to start in on life once more, why not start with the one love that had never failed him? And it was time to move on from the Garnier. Oh, his blood and sweat was mixed in to the very foundation of the place… but his blood could be found in many buildings across the world. He knew a porter at the Opera Comique that would turn a blind eye to a chair set up in the shadows, provided that the price of a ticket and half find its way into his pocket.

And then the Daroga came, and the entire list from the Opera on down went to hell.

Erik had to admit that, for a man of his vast intellectual gifts, he was prone to making the same mistake more than once. But he couldn't quite bring himself to slide back in to the self-destroying haze he had been in days previous. He could not stay in bed (again) and wait to die (again.) It had not worked any of the other myriad times he had tried it. He was too tired to really put in a good effort for it once more.

…but that list? What on earth was he supposed to do today? Did any of it even matter?

_Do you think we will be all right, Mojgan?_

Erik had noticed over the past few years that the voice of his bad memories had started to change. In his youth, he was haunted by the echoes of others—his mother with her trembling _Dies irae_ being hurled at her living boy; harsh turn aways from lodgings, food, churches ; the haughty proclamations from employers that he would be paid less for more work; never mind the mutters, the curses, and the screams. Such was the incidental music of his life, and it had long reverberated in his mind. At times it tormented him—at times it drove him.

Slowly, those other voices had started to fade. Oh, they still cropped up. ( _…the most grieved and most sublime of men.)_ But increasingly they had been replaced. Not that the replacement was much better: it was now his own voice, his own words and follies that would taunt him. Perhaps it was a quirk of advancing age? Eventually, one realizes that no one can hurt you as much as you can hurt yourself.

_Erik, come. Let us be friends._

Well. There was one of those other voices lingering. The memory of that voice was pale, almost intangible. The words were there, but it seemed a whisper to him. It held in it an impression of kindness, but it was… old. So very, very old. Erik sighed. With a practiced hand, he reached over to his night stand, struck a waiting match, and lit a candle.

Now. If he couldn't remember his old list, he would just need to start anew.

He started out simply. Breakfast. He noted that he would need to arrange for groceries soon. He ignored his sudden craving for sholeh zard. He had lived twenty years without it. He could live twenty more. And if it turned out he couldn't, well, that was no great loss.

He started in on a letter to one of his bankers. One may make their money through dubious amendments in an opera manager's memorandum book, but one did not then leave _all_ of that money lying about. He had previously put in a contingency in place for Christine to be able to draw on his account after his death. But, as he was yet alive, he would need the money himself. He hadn't been pleased to return the last forty thousand francs he had been paid by Moncharmin and Richard, but it was cheap price for turning their attention away from him. Besides, the bulk of what had been earned during Poligny and Debienne's tenure still sat, collecting interest. That was just as well. He didn't feel like making yet another fortune from scratch at this point in his life.

His mind wandered into the cellar, into a section kept quite separate from the water where he stored things of particular value. In a pinch, there were always things to sell. In one specific cedar trunk, he could find gold and silver, a few exquisite short swords, hand-bound volumes of poetry put down in immaculate calligraphy, and yards of the finest cashmere. Blood money from the Shah that he had never gotten around to spending.

He pulled his attention back to his letter. As much as he disliked banks, he disliked that thought even more.

And then there was the most pressing matter to attend to: his masks. He had fallen back on an old one, black broadcloth that he had stitched structure into. The one Christine had burned had been far finer: the softest calf's leather, molded along patrician lines, and lined with changeable silk. Oh, he hated that mask as much as he hated all the rest of them, but he still had his artist's eye and knew it was comparatively a thing of beauty. Comfortable, too. He had had another just like it, but bleached to bone whiteness. That one had met its ignominious fate during the little matter of the scorpion and the grasshopper.

That particular mask had the added benefit of not drawing quite so much attention as the black one. If Erik went about his business, with his collar worn high and his hat low, he could pass through a crowd with little comment. He foresaw the need for that soon.

He had been comfortable here in the Opera for the better part of the last decade. But, like all comforts in Erik's life, this one would be coming to an end.

…But where to go from here?

 _It is impossible for me to continue living like this, underground in a hole, like a mole!_ He had spoken those words honestly to Christine, and their continued truth taunted him now.

He had purchased a little property a few months back. Every detail that could be arranged at a distance had been done with great care. The house was large enough to be respectable, but not so large that it would have required more than a daily charwoman and scullery maid to attend to. He did not want an invasion of servants. The town selected had been populated enough to get lost in, but sufficiently isolated to afford privacy. Their closest neighbor was the church. It was a long walk from the property's edge to the house's front door. It sat in comfortable distance from the Brittany Express, so that a trip to either Paris or Perros was quite doable. It so exactly met the needs of Erik-and-Christine that Erik-by-himself found the idea of moving there quite appalling.

He started in on another letter, to sell off that property. He had as much use for it now as he did for the blind priest at the Madeleine church.

Well, if not that little house, what then?

_You could start with going to the Daroga's home on Monday._

The thought was so sudden and so sharp that Erik's head nearly snapped up to look for some hitherto unseen intruder who might've spoken the words.

There was no one there to hear him, but he still felt obliged to speak up. "No. No, I don't think I will."

After all, why should he go see a woman he hardly remembered at the behest of a man who was most certainly not his friend?

* * *

In the end, it was the mask that made the difference. He found the molds he had used for the ones destroyed, another length of thin pale leather, and he set to work. He loathed the process of making masks. There was the discomfort of forming the wet leather to fit his bare skin to start with. This was followed by the insulting work of adding of all the details lacking from his own face—the high bridge of a refined nose, the arch of the eyebrows, molding the cheekbones into sharpness as opposed to mere gauntness.

Still, Erik was a craftsman par excellence. He beveled and burnished the edges smooth, fired the mask carefully, made the most minute adjustments, and—this took the most time—shellacked and polished it to a soft ivory.

The task was loathsome, but the result was excellent.

When he put on the finished mask for the first time Monday morning, he felt quite equal to anything the day might throw at him.

Being a very practical ghost with a taste for good wine, Erik's first outing was to pick up the groceries he had ordered. He thought that would be plenty of time spent abroad for the day, but upon his return, he found a scrap of paper jammed into the hidden gate on the Rue Scribe.

_3 o'clock._

_-Nadir_

The signature was somewhat unnecessary, Erik thought. Who else was going to stick a note in his secret gate written in Persian? Still, his eye traced the curves of the given time, right to left, and something tugged at his heart. He was about to crumple the note and toss it away, but instead studied the signature one last time. Three staccato pen strokes in the Daroga's given name, plus one needlessly aggressive dot to cap his _noon._ He wondered how long it had been since he had signed himself thusly, instead of in his Latinized N-A-D-I-R.

Oddly enough, Erik still had vestige of his own Persian signature. He had never thought of the spelling of his name until he needed to start _signing_ things, which had started, in earnest, in Persia. It was a stark collection of lines: _alef-rey-yeh-kaf._ When he had returned to Europe, it had been natural to end his name with that terminal k, which shared something of the _kaf_ 's aggressive finality.

He didn't want to think of the other, subtle marks his time in Persia had left on him. He did crumple the note then, but shoved it into his pocket instead of throwing it into the sewer.

He put his groceries away, throwing the note onto the kitchen table, and then turned to his most dependable anesthetic: music. The organ had seen many recent abuses, and Erik was in no mood to undo the damage he had inflicted on it just yet. The violin had stayed safe in its case.

The capriccio he had been working on started taking on a disturbing Orientalist bent, he realized, and switched to an old fugue. He had once thought it might have a place in the _Don_ , but it had always been too soft for that burning opus.

Today, it felt especially round and supple underneath his fingers. He was enjoying himself, until he stuttered suddenly to a stop. Was that _cardamom_ in the counterpoint? It had never been there before. He looked at the violin like it had betrayed him. He was accustomed to the music taking unexpected turns, but that did not mean he always liked it.

He set the violin back into its case. Today he _felt_ like he was a madman, instead of merely being one. He shook a finger at the instrument. " _You_ are not allowed to disappoint Erik as well."

The silent violin mocked him. _Shall we resurrect Lazarus again, instead?_

Erik shut the lid with unnecessary force.

Eventually, he was back in the kitchen. He set his mask on the table, poured wine, buttered bread, and sat.

Like the violin, the note sat mocking him. The _mask_ sat mocking him, too, but he was used to that. He chewed thoughtfully, staring at the crumpled paper. He smoothed it absently with one hand.

That was where _thought_ seemed to end. He picked up the mask and set it back on automatically. Without really knowing how or why, he found himself at Nadir's door. His hand was hovering to knock, but did not quite make contact with the wood. Why was he here, again? He supposed there was only one way to find out.

The Daroga personally opened the door. His brows rose. "You came. I can't say _I'm_ pleased, but Mojgan will be."

Ah, Mojgan. That's why he was here. Wasn't it? Erik tilted his head. "Are you going to make Erik stand out here, or invite me in?"

The Daroga's eyes sharpened, but he stepped aside. When Erik handed off his coat, Nadir looked at it with suspicion even as he hung it on the stand.

Erik chuckled. "No gunpowder, Daroga."

"Well, you can't blame me for wondering," he replied with a lightness that did not reach his eyes.

"Gunpowder is worthless once it's been soaked so completely," Erik commented. He knew it was a somewhat perverse thing to talk about, but he could not quite stop the words from coming. He never could. He flopped onto the couch.

"I should call you an extraordinary blackguard," Nadir grumbled.

"Erik will do."

"An extraordinary blackguard of an Erik, then." The Daroga also all but collapsed onto a chair. "You're early."

Erik glanced at the clock on the mantle—just after two. "Ah. So I am." He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, the Daroga's gaze locked on his actions. He slowly pulled out a deck of cards and held them up. "Card trick?"

Ah, that look again that stirred so many, many old memories. Surely, a lecture was coming. Well, if the Daroga thought that Erik would stand to be chastised like a schoolboy at this point in his life!—

It took Erik a moment to realize that the Daroga's head had sunk into his hands, and that his shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. He almost jumped out of his seat to go over to the older man, concerned, before it became clear:

The Daroga was laughing. Hysterically.

As Erik sat watching this unusual display, he couldn't help thinking, _No wonder people think I'm crazy, if I laugh like that._


	41. I Sell

The Daroga's mirth did not last long. It seemed to have been the product of exhaustion and incredulity, as opposed to any kind of real happiness, and so ended with his head still in his hands.

"How do you do it?" he asked at length. "How is it possible that you look at _everything that has happened these past months_ — no, years!—and simply—' _do you want to see a card trick?!'_ " His voice had started out equitably enough, but ended with enough angry force that Erik flinched.

They stared at one another. Erik distantly heard something being dropped in the kitchen: faithful Darius, no doubt. Neither he nor the Daroga paid it any heed.

"Were you not the one," Erik started, very slow and quiet, "who came to me a few days ago and said ' _Why, Erik, you have time and world enough! Change! Live! Be like me!'_ Or perhaps you simply thought of those as parting words. A salve for your conscience, ' _Look, I did what I could to encourage the old devil to mend his ways!'_ Tell me, if your little cousin had not suddenly reappeared, would you have ever bothered to call on poor old Erik again?"

"Erik—" the Daroga's voice was sharp.

Erik was on his feet, pacing. "No! It is all of your own doing, Daroga! You and I both know that you may have _tracked_ me—but you were never going to drag me back to that _kalaheh shagal_ Shah's court anyway. Why even bother finding me in the first place? Why bother staying?"

"I knew you would find trouble," the Daroga replied coldly. "I knew others would be hurt. I stayed to clean up after you—and so I did."

Erik reached into the deep recesses of his mind, into those dark days of Mazandaran and the command of the Persian language they had given him, and unleashed a thoroughly comprehensive and utterly profane diatribe concerning Nadir's character, parentage, and personal habits. The Daroga was unmoved.

"Tell me, Erik," he said, "why is it that, when this sad— _pathetic—_ business was done… why did you come to me? Why did you come, proclaiming that your lovesick heart would finally kill you, entrusting me with those little trinkets of the Daaé girl, asking me to play your messenger once again?"

They were frozen, Erik realize, stuck in some old tableau that they had been practicing for decades. Did all men get so stuck? Erik wondered. Other men, with ordinary friends, ordinary wives, ordinary faces? Erik did not think so. The problem was: he was unsure how to _unstick_ himself.

Perforce, he stayed on the topic at hand. They both knew the answer to the Daroga's question: there was no one else to turn to. But Erik would not say those words, not now. "You already meddled. As always."

"And what if I had not?" the Daroga asked. "How much more blood would be on your hands? The Count—"

" _That_ ," Erik cut in, "was the _siren._ "

Erik knew that look, as well. The Daroga did not believe him. But he was already on to the next point, regardless. "What would you have done to that poor girl?"

"Many people marry without love," Erik said, an echo of earlier, desperate words. Why did it feel like everything said today was simply a repeating motif? Was there nothing new to add to the symphony of his life? He should have done more to help the diminuendo along. "It grows. They marry for some other, practical concern, something on offer that the other one needs. Well, _I had something_. I had something to give Christine that no one else did."

For once, in his wretched life, he had something good to offer a woman. Not mere slavish devotion, or the worthless blood in his veins—though, yes, he certainly would have opened his wrists and abased himself to the ground for her. And not the simple _gift_ of music, which was just as likely to be misunderstood and ignored as it was to be admired. No. What he could have done for her voice—what they could have done together for their musical souls—Erik could not imagine anything more precious to lay at the feet of one's beloved.

It had not been enough.

They were interrupted by Darius, who must have screwed up all his courage to come in and set down a tray of sweets. He nodded differentially at Erik. He certainly no longer looked _young_ , not with that hairline much higher at the temples than it had been, but there was still something in his face that spoke to the _errand boy._ Erik returned the nod.

"It was one thing when you were twenty," the Daroga spoke again, with less venom but equal intensity. "When you were a boy of twenty, surrounded by people who wanted your heart to be as dark as their own, I could… _tolerate_ how you seemed hellbent on your own destruction. But now? I wish you would choose to do better."

Oh. Another recognizable look on the Daroga's face. It had been a long, long time since he had seen it. _Disappointment._ It was a look that never failed to make Erik feel… small. Helpless. But unlike other occasions when he felt helpless, he had no desire to fight back.

There was little to be said after that. A few minutes passed, and the Daroga spoke again, almost conversationally. "So. Will you behave for Mojgan?"

Erik snorted and decided against picking up a cookie. "I shall _endeavor_." He rethought the cookie again, a recollection of times past telling him that it would be worth the discomfort of eating while masked. "You should have arrested me when you had the chance, Daroga."

The Daroga was silent for a long moment. "No. I stand by my decision."

"Why, are you infallible?" Gentle raillery. Erik thought that was as good as one could hope for just now. "Why even make it in the first place?"

"Well. You made me laugh."

Erik, who could not recall ever _truly_ having made Nadir laugh before today's madness, was spared from answering. There was a knock.

Darius slipped away. The Daroga stood. Erik stood.

The door opened, and gentle words were exchanged between manservant and lady.

And Erik remembered.

He remembered that voice, not as a whisper, not an old impression. He remembered gentle laughter without any hint of mockery. He remembered words freezing on the winter air in the forest between Nowshahr and his kingdom by the sea. He remembered pretty little songs sung that were supposed to keep wild beasts away but really just kept their spirits up.

He was glad for the memory of the voice, as he honestly did not think he would have been able to pick her out of a crowd. He had seen Mojgan with kohl-rimmed eyes, dressed in beautiful robes and head coverings held with bejeweled clasps. He had seen her dirty and bundled into boy's clothing. Occasionally, he had even seen her at rest, in loose kaftans and charming little caps. This fashion plate that had stepped out of _De Mode_ , with curled and pinned hair and dressed in Rambouillet wool, was almost unrecognizable. But the voice was there, and the soft smile, and the flash of raven's wing black as her eyelashes lowered.

She stepped over the threshold, and stood in front of Erik, with her hand extended. He glanced at it curiously, memories of Persia warring with the present in Paris. After a moment, he took it, barely touching her glove.

He glanced back at Nadir. "Strange days, Daroga. Are they not?"

"Truly," the Daroga stepped forward and Erik let Mojgan's hand drop. She gave it to the Daroga, who squeezed it with more familiarity and then dropped a kiss on her cheek for good measure. "Come in, joonam. _He_ still has yet to learn any real manners."

She settled in Erik's previous seat. He found himself still standing, even after the Daroga indicated another chair. Erik shook his head slightly. _She_ would not stop looking at him, and it was making his skin crawl. It was not that he could detect any unkindness in her gaze—quite the reverse, actually.

"Well, I would hope we wouldn't stand on formality _now,_ " she said, taking off her gloves. "Oh, Darius, did you make _shirineh nokhodcheh_? I can't remember the last time I had these." She happily took up one of the cookies, but her face grew thoughtful as she ate it. "This is Parastoo's recipe!"

Erik only half-listened to the light conversation, Persian liberally augmented with French. She was different, he could tell, subtly so. The same symphony under a different conductor. He fought the urge to pace for a time, but eventually gave in, making a slow circuit around the sitting room. All the while, he could feel Mojgan's eyes following him. When he would glance back at her, she would blink impassively.

"Nadir said you've run in to some trouble of late," she said when he at last stood still for more than a minute. "Are you all right?"

Erik spared a glare for the Daroga, who remained, as usual, unmoved. "Yes. Fine."

"I'm glad," she replied earnestly. "If… there is trouble, I may be able to help. I don't know how long my husband will have us in Paris, but as long as I am here, I have some resources at my disposal."

That word— _husband_ —brought up an old picture of a stuffy, aristocratic accountant who was nearly as ugly as Erik. Well. _Half_ as ugly. He had one whole side of his face that was quite serviceable, lucky dog. Dead dog, though, Erik was sure. But then she briefly outlined what her free-wheeling diplomat of a husband was doing, and Erik remembered what Nadir had told him: _She has remarried a man in the foreign service and he brought her here._

"Do you like this one as much as the last one?" Erik asked.

Nadir made an exclamation of disapproval for Erik's innocent question, but Mojgan appeared to be unperturbed. "He is a… good man, in his way. Nothing like Feridoon, but still a good man. I would say we've become friends." She helped herself to tea. "Not to make things sound bleak! I suppose very few people have the luxury of marrying for love."

Erik cast another look at the Daroga. "Quite so. Marry for practical reasons and the love grows. Some couples end up quite wild about each other."

"Well, I'm not going to claim to be _wild_ about Reza," she chuckled. "But I am fond of him. He is good to me. And… I would have been a fool to refuse him." Something in her tone made Erik think those last words were not her own. She shrugged slightly, and turned that warm gaze back to Erik full force. "It sounds like you're speaking from experience, Erik."

Erik did not know what hurt more about her comment: that he could not say, _ah, yes, come to supper and meet my dear Christine_ or the fact that Mojgan stated it as though it was actually _possible._ In the end, he simply shook his head, and she let the subject drop.

"Returning to the topic of Erik and trouble," Nadir cut in, "How precisely _did_ you explain this visit to your husband? You did not mention who else might be here, did you?"

Mojgan shifted uneasily for a moment, but confirmed that, no, she hadn't explained Erik to her husband, or anyone else at the Persian Embassy. She did not think it was safe. Such had been the course of wisdom, but somehow speaking those words galvanized old fears.

The Daroga was on his feet, and Erik could see in him that capable, responsible police officer of old. He handed his own teacup off to Darius. "Two cups. Only."

Ah, the four of them had played that game before, hadn't they? The last days in Mazandaran, when he and Mojgan both had to live as ghosts or risk becoming them.

"Keep it that way," Nadir said. "Few in the embassy cared what I was here for to begin with; and Erik is thought to be dead. Did Reza think it odd you wanted to call again on a kinsman of your first husband? Do you think he might come to suspect something?"

"I don't know," she said truthfully. "I've never set out to conceal something from him before. I believe he thinks it… quaint that I wanted to see an old friend." She looked troubled, and glanced into her tea as if it suddenly tasted bad. "Which I see it actually was a quaint idea. You would think that twenty years and an entire continent would be enough for us to be able to have tea together without looking over our shoulders." She took a sip of her tea and grimaced.

"It would be," the Daroga said. His tone could almost be called soothing. "If we were anyone other than who we are."

Funny. _Who we are._ It seemed that in this particular circle, even Erik was admitted to belong.

"You need not worry about me," Erik cut in. "I am leaving Paris for a time."

Mojgan looked resigned, perhaps even disappointed. Nadir looked wary.

"Are you indeed?" he said. "This is new."

It was, in fact, of this very moment. There had been half an idea that struck his fancy after the Daroga's first visit, which prompted half an effort at research, which Erik then let fall by the wayside. It must have been hearing that we was truly considered dead to the world that prompted him to a sudden decision- or the equally strange feeling of being made to belong. The Daroga pressed for specifics, and Erik gave them. "Monte Carlo. Garnier is doing work there. It is nearing completion, but there is always fine-tuning to be done."

"And you are going to go work for him?" the Daroga asked, more pointed still.

"Yes," Erik kept his voice very even—light—reassuring. Not that Charles Garnier had any idea that he was about to show up at his latest project, but he was unlikely to turn away Erik's expertise.

"Garnier?" Mojgan broke in. "Like the Palais Garnier?"

"Erik had _much_ to do with that building," Nadir said. The tone was less civil than the words.

"I went there last week," she said. "It was very beautiful."

Curious, that. So she was there, at the opera in recent days, floors and floors above Erik's home? He felt the world going a little fuzzy around him, his thoughts creeping inexorably towards the Riviera coast and away from— well, away. He picked up another cookie and chewed it thoughtfully, something about the crumbly texture and the cool aroma of the cardamom reminding him where he was and what he was doing. And with who. He could not forget who: these madcap Persians he thought he had left behind long ago. "I am sorry I will not be able to show it to you," he said at length, and was surprised that he meant it.

"Yes, I would have liked that. Do you know how long your project will be? I may be in Paris for many more months," she cut herself off and then chuckled. "Merciful God, Erik, was I such a fool when we traveled together? How did you put up with me?"

"You were indeed," he assured her. "Always wanting to do nonsense things like eat and sleep. I despaired of you. But you are still the most _pleasant_ travelling companion I've ever had—" this said with a darkling glare at the Daroga— "And I promise: if you are still in Paris when I return, we will find a way."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Erik instantly resolved to never set foot in Paris again.

They passed the next half-hour in more pleasant conversation, pretending that they were friends and that the world outside the Rue de Rivoli was a kind place.

Nadir she would see again, and so bid him a briefer farewell. But this time, she did not let Erik get away with a mere touch of the hand. She clasped his firmly, and stared straight into his eyes. She had not put her gloves back on, and Erik wondered how she tolerated his icy hands in her warm ones.

"Have you been happy?" she asked.

He had been wise not to make that promise, all those years ago. But he was able to answer with a clean conscience. "I have tried."

"I'm glad you remembered," she said, and was gone.

Erik stayed with Nadir until well after the sunset, on the off chance _someone_ had decided to follow the Shah's envoy's wife and take note of every passerby on the cramped little street. Darius brought out wine, and Erik ate too many chickpea cookies. They did not speak of Persia, or of the Opera, or of any other bone of contention between the two of them. They spoke of the fire in the Rue Port Mahon, and the matter of the slaves in Zanzibar, and the newest Jules Verne novel ( _no, Erik would not send himself down the Amazon, thank you_.)

Erik did not dream of Christine that night, either. Instead, he found himself in a forest, somewhere west of Mazandaran and east of Ghazvin, as far from any path leading to Tehran as possible. He knew the forest he was in, knew who he was with, and why. But somehow, this Mojgan was fleeing to safety dressed in European finery, her dark hair uncovered and unconfined, with rubies dancing on her fingertips. Erik couldn't find the voice for words, but when the tigers decided to come roaring towards them, he sang them all to sleep. Dream-Mojgan smiled at him, more brilliantly than he had ever seen in life, before she also fell victim to his lullaby. _That really happened_ , part of his mind insisted. _We were here, and she trusted me, and I sang to keep her safe._

What let him know it was, in fact, a dream was when he put his arm around her shoulders, and her sleeping head rested on his chest, and all he could smell was the jasmine and cardamom caught in her hair.


	42. My Dervish Dress

My Dear Shadi,

If there was one skill I acquired over the years I spent with Reza, it was the ability to set things aside and get on with business. I suppose I had actually been doing that my entire life; the business had simply changed. But while my life before Reza had been interspersed with long silences, with him it was a nonstop whirl. There were times when it seemed my only times of quiet were alone in bed—which I often would not get to until midnight or much later—or perhaps in a carriage between engagements.

To all outward appearances, I carried off this public life well. There was never a disparaging sentence about me in any society paper, and if there was some private whisper, these never made it into a public forum. I smiled, learned to speak of the weather in a handful of languages. I read, I danced, I went to the theater. I appreciated my life, but there were times when I longed to strike out from my front door and find myself running through the fields or the woods or _any_ place so long as it was private and wild and free.

I wanted a different kind of company, and a different kind of solitude. I wanted quiet evenings, good conversation with people I loved. I did not want to be a mere spectator to someone else's life. What I wanted was probably what I could have had with Feridoon, had he been a private gentleman instead of a servant of the Shah. But even Feridoon had his limits of what he found a worthwhile topic of conversation, whereas I had developed a curiosity about… everything.

However, all of these things were set aside and I got on with business. I did not spend my hours mourning what I had lost, nor lusting over what I could not have. But everyone has those moments, the quiet just before you open your eyes in the morning, when you still have the picture of your dreams drifting before you.

Nadir had been wise to be cautious when I came to visit. The very next time I went to go see him, a few weeks after seeing Erik, Reza spontaneously popped up just before I settled into the carriage.

"I have a mind to see the old Daroga," he said.

"Can you really call him old?" I teased. "You're of an age." Nadir was actually a bit younger, but since I didn't really want irritate my husband, I did not feel compelled to be overly specific.

Reza took the comment in the spirit it was intended and laughed as he stepped in and sat across from me. "I'll have you know that I was quite a _young_ man… when Fath Ali appointed me to foreign service."

"I wouldn't know," I replied. "I hadn't been born yet."

He reached across and tweaked my nose. "See? I will enjoy speaking to a sensible adult. Impertinent woman!"

It was times like these, when Reza and I could banter between the two of us, that I felt my growing discontent was silly—if not somewhat unforgivable. But just as Feridoon never thought to be anything but a public servant because it was his duty, Reza would never have wanted to be a private gentleman because public service was his lifeblood. That I would have chosen something different for myself was immaterial. I was a wife, and I had chosen _that_.

I did not worry about bringing Reza with me unannounced. There had been something deadly serious in the way Erik had bid me farewell that I would have been shocked to find that he had not left the area as he said. And, on the off chance it was just a bit of the old melodrama in his soul coming out to play, I knew I could trust him and Nadir to be quick on their feet. When Darius opened the door, I took the precaution of telling him to announce Reza. It was unnecessary. Darius simply bowed us in, and went to procure another teacup.

Nadir and Reza got along perfectly well. They _were_ of a similar generation, came from a similar class, and had both been thought bright young things by the same old Shah. We passed a pleasant visit, and I was touched when Reza concluded by inviting Nadir to dine with him and some of the others at the Embassy. Nadir accepted with wry humor, only detectable to one who knew him very well.

I truly do not believe Reza was nosing around for a conspiracy, but he was sharp. In the carriage, his eyes glinted in amusement.

"Ah, _zanam_!" He laughed and I perked my ears up. While he was liberal with his pet names, that was not a term that came up much: _wife of mine._ "I should have known you had _some_ skeleton hidden in the closet."

I'm ashamed to say that my first thought was, _Erik's never been in my closet, just behind my curtains._ But I knew that was not what he meant. I shrugged and played at his game. "You know my skeletons, _shohariman_. I warned you."

"So you did," he agreed magnanimously. "And, as far as embarrassing relatives go, Nadir Khan is not the worst one to be stuck with. And the connection is remote enough that it could be broken with ease."

I thought of the last few hours Reza had spent chatting with Nadir, drinking his tea and smoking his pipe, and remembered all over again how heartsick the machinations of the Shah's court—no matter the physical distance—made me. But I gave Reza my undivided attention and asked, "Is that what you would like to happen?"

He shook his head. "No, no, ma belle. There is no need." I was curious about what would have qualified as a 'need,' but simply nodded. "Really, I simply wonder what led to his fall from grace?" He gave me an inviting look, but I could only shake my head.

"I had long since departed court life, and Nadir and I did not keep in contact," I said truthfully.

"And he did not say, when last you visited him?"

"That it was another errand set by the Shah, well outside his police duties— one that he had no way to accomplish." I said the words carelessly, having edited and reedited them in my head over the weeks. "He is philosophical about it."

Apparently, I _could_ conceal things from Reza quite well.

Nadir's situation did improve somewhat from the association with us. His pension was delivered on time and in whole for the first time in years. The random assortment of imported foods I would send—as a memory of home, of course, not charity—earned me many a grateful look from Darius. And while he would grouse at being my unofficial escort to some informal occasions, I think he was glad to have a semblance of a social life.

I was therefore quite surprised when I asked if he wanted to attend a performance of _Le_ _Prophète_ and was met with a vehement refusal. I remembered then his passing mention of Erik helping in the construction of the Palais Garnier, and ventured to ask if that had anything to do with his disinclination to go.

"If only that was the whole of the matter," he sighed. His eyes, those beautiful, unusual green eyes, dulled. I had not yet grown accustom to his older face, his greyer hair. And now whatever weighed on his mind made him seem older still.

It did not take much prying to get the story from Nadir: the _affair of the opera ghost_ and the soprano _._ Indeed, Nadir had quite a lot of commentary to accompany the particulars of the incident. The exact details of that sad occurrence we have consigned to the past. I know you read of them when that exposé came out in _Le Gaulois_ a few years ago—though I will comment that as investigative journalism, it left something to be desired. But at the time, it was still very much a private tragedy and I think Nadir was glad to tell of his experiences from start to finish, without editing himself or stopping every two minutes to explain something of Erik. There was nothing on that score that could surprise me. I knew too well.

I suppose it is not to my credit that I was not terribly shocked. Perhaps I was too quick to absolve Erik. But I still lived in a world where a man might die for being on the wrong side of land dispute, or for taking the wrong lover, or for following the wrong prophet. I knew that sometimes doing the _right thing_ and doing the _thing to survive_ were not always the same. Perhaps that is why, time and again, Erik had my sympathy. I never saw myself as his better. I had no moral high ground over him. Circumstances had never prompted me to the shedding of blood, but who was I to say definitively that I would not be capable of just as many terrible things as Erik if pressed? When tragedy befell me, I had always had a protector to stand with me. Who was there to help Erik?

I pitied everyone involved. There was no denying that a little restraint on Erik's part could have saved many from grief, but restraint was not one of Erik's stronger qualities. I felt sorry for the soprano, and was glad she had made her escape. Had I not also become entwined in high drama without ever having gone looking for it?

But I also felt sorry for my friend, who had been alone for so very long. Those old conversations in Mazandaran had revealed the poor, neglected boy hidden in the brilliant, unstable man. I had built an image in my mind of Erik the afflicted, one in need of mercy, and could not be rid of that idea. In the end, I simply let Nadir speak, and I withheld my judgement. There was only one aspect of the story that truly bothered me as much as it baffled me, and I would have to wait to hear the story from Erik's own lips before I knew how to really feel about it. But that seemed increasingly unlikely, as the weeks turned to months and spring started to come upon Paris but not Erik.

Reza was very satisfied with the results of his time in Paris. Several members of the diplomatic staff had been replaced, many a good impression had been made at a splashy soiree, and I could tell he was itching to get on to something new.

"The New Year in Paris," he said one evening after one of those parties, "and then back to London. The Shah is most keen to fix British interests in the tobacco industry." He tapped his cheek thoughtfully. "I think I will switch from pipes to cigarettes. A nice gold holder will garner attention."

He kissed my cheek and retired to his room. It was the last conversation we were to have. I was up late with a book, and heard the inauspicious _thump_ some time after one o'clock. I pulled on a robe, knocked at the door that connected our rooms, and when there was no answer, I went in.

The doctor later told me that Reza had tried to arise from his bed as he suffered his heart attack. He had been knocked unconscious from striking his head against the bedframe, but it had already been too late.

In the end, one becomes a widow in the same way: your husband, the person you are supposed to be closest to in the entirety of the world, perhaps the person who _is_ the entirety of your world, is gone. There was no great difference to sitting on the floor of a bedroom in Paris, Reza's poor head in my lap, than hearing of the knife shoved through Feridoon's poor ribs at the city gates. Both were losses. Both were endings. I didn't feel any more equipped to deal with Reza's death as a matron nearing forty than I had felt as a girl approaching twenty.

But I also had the same person there to help. After I sent for the doctor, I sent another note. I asked for Nadir's help, again.

I just didn't know, exactly, what I was asking for.

More to come soon. My hand cramps and all this talk of death has given me a headache.

_Mojgan Khanum_


	43. Worth More

Erik was not omniscient. This was not news to him, though he figured some would be surprised to hear him admit it.

He had not been wrong in thinking that Charles Garnier would accept his offer of help, but his information had been more out of date than he realized. When he arrived in Monte Carlo, hopeful that there would still be work of substance to be done on the Grand Concert Hall of the Casino, he instead found everything complete—even the 'fine tuning' had wound down to a mere few rooms unconnected to the auditorium. It appeared that the Prince was not overly enthusiastic with the final product, but it was equally apparent that he was willing to live with the current result until the Casino could bring in enough profit to make a remodel convenient.

After finding this to be the case, and with nothing better to do, Erik found himself kicking around the coast, utterly at a loss. He had spent several days entertaining the idea of buying a yacht and striking out for parts unknown with only a good quantity of wine for company when he heard further tell of the architect.

Garnier had not gone far. Thinking it polite, Erik sent a telegram ahead of himself, waited an hour or so, and then struck out for Nice. He was greeted at Garnier's small, temporary office—somewhat noticeably devoid of other employees—with a professional handshake and well-mannered smile. The current project was for an observatory, perched atop Mount Gros. "Not much in the way of waterworks," Garnier commented with a shrug, as he showed Erik the plans.

"You know I'm good for more than sewers," Erik replied. He tried to keep his tone civil. What was it that the Daroga had been so insistent upon? _There were people who liked you… you could have made a life for yourself._ Maybe it was true, and maybe it wasn't, but trying to live up to the idea was exhausting. "Who is doing the dome?"

Garnier's smile flashed under the wiry curtain of mustache. "I wish I _had_ known you were back in practice for that. But the contract has been given to Eiffel. He lacks some of your artistry, but as a structural engineer, I have never met his equal."

Erik tried to be charitable. "He has done well enough, given the newer technology available."

"Well," Garnier shrugged, and started putting the blueprints away, " _Some_ of us had to wait for levers and pulleys to be invented before putting out masterpieces."

Erik nodded, and silently continued to consider a scale model of the observatory to come. He appreciated Garnier's lines cast in a more classical mold, without all of the frills and flourishes that were mandated when one worked for princes and emperors. He tried to comment as much, the words more caustic than he meant them to be, but they were received in good enough humor.

They ended up walking up to the site. There, many laborers continued at their work, ignoring the man in the mask. It was a comfortable, familiar disinterest. There were too many things to attend to on a construction site to give much heed to anything else.

"I think you've been out of the industry for some years," Garnier commented conversationally. "What ventures have you been pursuing?"

What indeed! Erik struggled to contain laughter, and mostly succeeded. "Music."

"Really?" He did not sound remotely surprised. "Anything I might've have heard about?"

Erik thought of the various newspapers over the past year: praise for the new Margarita, that peculiar headline _Two hundred kilos on the head of concierge,_ the whimsical comment _We recognize the touch of the Opera ghost._ He bit back another chuckle. "Yes, but shall we say—trade secrets?"

Garnier accepted this with a slight inclination of his head. "Well, you certainly have enough trades to have trade secrets in." In the end, Erik knew there was nothing for him on this project. Garnier seemed willing enough to try to find _something_ for him to do, but Erik fancied that they both knew he would be bored.

"I think I may know of something that will interest you," Garnier said at the last. "But I want to be surer of it before getting your hopes up. Will you be on the Riviera long?"

Erik had no fixed plans, and said as much.

"Then why don't you come up next Thursday? There is a good deal of masonry work scheduled; having your eye on it would be welcomed." Garnier's own eyes had turned calculating, and Erik knew of the numbers and blueprints rising before him. "Perhaps I will have word by then."

Erik did come on Thursday, and then again the following Monday. Garnier had no news for him, and so Erik poked around the site. He made a few suggestions, but late in the afternoon found himself doffing his suit jacket and hewing a brick of marble to replace one that had cracked. No one commented. He returned a few days later.

If some oversight of the observatory had been Erik's sole occupation, he _would_ have been bored. But instead he found himself drifting in once or twice a week, sometimes picking up tools and helping fit together the bones of the building, sometimes helping the foreman navigate around an unforeseen complication. He left Monte Carlo and took up a small isolated house nearer Nice. A maid of all work would come only when he was gone.

He made himself a new mask, flesh-toned and stage makeupy. He wore it to pick up groceries and it served a bit better than the false nose and moustache he so often used. He saw a lyre guitar, perhaps sixty years old, in the window of a secondhand shop on one of these outings and brought it back to his temporary home. He restored it and restrung it, and when he wasn't pestering Garnier, he was strumming it thoughtfully. Once in a while, he would take it with his to the construction site after everyone else had left. He would make his way further up Mount Gros, and keep company with the stars shining clear in the crisp late winter air. And he would play.

For twenty years, Don Juan had been his companion. Erik first composed him into existence while returning to Mazandaran, a fleeting motif that played with fire in the forest. He took shape in Constantinople, as Erik narrowly avoided making the same mistakes he had made in Persia. He found a personality on the Gulf of Tonkin, as Erik helped local sailors pirate against the French interlopers, commandeering a water-logged French passport for his trouble. In Italy, Erik had a new set of travel documents forged, listing a birthplace in Switzerland and a name that could slide between _Erico Rossi,_ _Éric Roux,_ or _Erik Roth_ with ease—and so it only made sense that in Italy the Don took on his name as well.

He poured rage and pain into Don Juan, and the music shaped the story into something terrible—something both powerful and dreadful and utterly consuming besides. His mad laughter cannonaded out of the pipe organ in the bowels of the opera, just deep enough underground not to reach its public spaces. The Don never faced his retribution at Erik's hand, always escaping condemnation in the score, but in life, he had to stay in his underworld.

Erik had thought the third act might take on a new direction, as he created the concluding scenes in between coaxing Christine's angelic voice to new heights. And yet… Don Juan was too far gone. Or was it Erik himself? He would try to write of the tender lover, but the music only gave him an indomitable debaucher, laughing through the tears he caused.

The Don was now dead. Unrepentant down to the last measure, but with his pages all a-jumble and shoved into the coffin Erik had built for himself so long ago. He was waiting for his last triumph: for Christine to succumb to the seduction of sticking to her word and bury him, right along with his composer.

And yet—Erik was in Nice. And Christine? Christine was far from France and would suffer to be forsworn. Erik could feel it deep within him, just as he had felt how her love for her boy had moved Christine to _sacrifice_ herself. She turned the scorpion. She kissed Erik's forehead. She cried with him and for him, and—Erik _knew_ —for herself. But she would not come to fulfill that last promise, which must have seemed so little a thing when compared to what else he had asked of her at the time.

It had struck Erik as vitally important to extract that promise from her then. His whole life may have well hinged on that one request, and he thought— _there is nothing better than this left in the world._ Now, as new music came unbidden onto the strings of the lyre-guitar, he was glad to think Christine would probably not return to bury him. He thought briefly of writing another advertisement for the _Époque: OG still dead. No further action required._ But, no. What was the phrase? Let sleeping dogs stay asleep. Let no ghosts haunt her nightmares. Unless he was very much mistaken, her little chap-turned-husband would keep her far from Paris regardless of what the newspapers said.

Erik could forgive that—support it, even—though the idea that Christine might also be kept off any stage was a bitter pill to try to swallow.

…but the music was not bitter, not this time. It did not burn, though Erik would have been hard pressed to call it _sweet_ or _soothing._ His eyes left the stars and settled on his own fingers, deft even in the shadows.

 _Who are you?_ He wondered. _We have not met before, have we?_

The music slipped away, veiling itself in the starlight, as if shy of interrogation.

* * *

It was a small life in Nice. Erik's opinions on music were not played out on a stage before thousands. No one feared the reprisals of a malevolent ghost. People still stared at his mask, at times even pointed and or sent out a rough word, but it was nothing that made Erik fear for himself. Somehow, it all matter… less than it had before.

There were no more palaces build—not of stone, or song, or any other medium. Even a few short years ago, that thought would have had galled Erik: how unfair the world was! If the world was a _kinder_ place, how much more Erik could have done in it! He still believed that, but the importance he placed on it had dwindled.

He had set his sights on something grander, more unattainable a kingdom's glory.

_Don Juan Triumphant is finished; and now I want to live like everybody else. I want to have a woman like everybody else, and we will walk on Sundays._

Perhaps this last and most profound failure had finally curbed his ambition. He had turned his every power to the pursuit of his goal—and he had succeeded. With all of his cunning, he had won his living bride. His living, _weeping_ bride.

All of that effort, and the prize had not been worth the price.

Much like _Don Juan Triumphant_.

Much like his kingdom by the Caspian Sea.

He could not change the world. He could not change what he was. But he could content himself with smaller dreams, smaller victories. No longer did that seem like something to be ashamed of. He was willing to make himself small, if it meant peace and rest.

Charles Garnier had been scarce in recent days. Some smaller project in Menton has caught his attention briefly, and he had no fear of the Observatory going awry under Erik's aegis. But he returned eventually, and sought Erik out.

"I've had word," he said, sounding very satisfied with himself.

It took Erik a moment to remember what that would be 'word' about. He had put it out of his mind, but now looked curiously at the thick envelope in Garnier's hand. "A project?"

"Yes, and they would be delighted to have you," Garnier said. "There is but one disadvantage—it is the end of the project, and I know you would like to sink your teeth into the start of one. But it is otherwise very much in your line."

Erik remained silent, his head tilted in inquiry. Garnier handed him the letter.

How could something be so wonderful and yet so terrible at the same time? Erik had to think he was cursed—cursed for everything to come as a double-edged sword. There were some very fine things to be read in that letter. The salary, for one. The level of oversight for another. But then there were other details, as daunting as they were appealing.

_Opera house._

_Rouen._

Garnier was indeed very pleased with himself for making the arrangements. "They are slated to open the stage in late September. But when the last contractor abandoned the project, they fell woefully behind. Not even seven months, and it looks to me like a year's work!" Garnier's voice faded from Erik's ears; as he went on to speak of the particulars of the building, of how his recommendation of Erik had been received with raptures. Indeed, the whole of Garnier's office, the whole of Nice, seemed to recede from his vision—he found himself all at once on the top of some gentle hill, staring up at that spire of the great cathedral jutting up into the sky like the Tower of Babel itself. He thought, _I should go home for supper. She always leaves a tray of supper on the sideboard for me._ But he relished the feel of the crisp air on the exposed skin of his face, and thought, _I will not be missed if I do not return._

Those were his thoughts of Rouen, and they vanished as quickly as they came. There was no crisp air on his face, but the weight of leather. He breathed in as Garnier continued to talk, deep breaths like he might take before launching into song. He counted the pieces of papers in the architect's hands.

Garnier was at last silent, in expectation of a reply.

Words ran through Erik's mind as fast as racing horses. _Erik does not want to go to Normandy. Erik does not want to go to the opera. If there is a God, he is cruel to Erik. …but perhaps Erik is cruel to Erik, too._ He felt like he was speaking very slowly, though it appeared there was no unnatural lapse in the conversation. " _I,_ " he said with great effort, "thank you."

"Then you will undertake it?"

 _No, no, no—a thousand times no!_ "Yes."

"Excellent! There are only a few contracts to be signed, at the solicitors' in Paris," Garnier paused here. "I communicated as best I could about… how you like to work."

Why was it that so many things had come up in recent months that made Erik feel like he should double over, laughing until he might cry? Even the Daroga had given in to that, not too long ago. But he had overcome must stronger struggles in the moments previous, and so resisted.

Garnier said he would send a telegram ahead of Erik. They shook hands, and Erik looked up at the observatory a last time. Perhaps he would come back when it was completed. Perhaps he might undertake the collapse of Eiffel's dome at an opportune moment, and then build something better.

Or, perhaps, he would go to Rouen, help finish the Opera House, and manage to find the peace that eluded him there as a child.

It did not take long to tie up his affairs in Nice. He returned the house key it the leasing agent, its rented furniture covered in drop cloths by the maid. He packed his valise, decided at the last to hold on to the lyre-guitar, and reserved his first class train ticket. He left in the morning, and while a few other passengers filtered into his compartment, none stayed for more than a few stops.

He thought of first of calling on the Daroga, but then rejected that. Why should he? If the old man wanted to find him—and why should he at this point?—he could manage. He had followed Erik overseas and across countries. The next region over should not be beyond his abilities, _if he so chose to exercise them._

He was resolved, then, not to speak with Nadir, and certainly not with Mojgan. He would spend the night in his flat under the Opera, dance attendance on Garnier's contact as soon as possible, and then disappear into Normandy. And so he may have well done—if he had not picked up the most recent _Gazette_ that had been left by the compartment's previous occupant. He made unhurried progress through the news of the week that allowed him to catch a mere bullet point: _Death of the Special Envoy of the King of Persia._ The name was a familiar one, and the passing mention that _He and his charming wife, la Khatoun, were a fixture of the Parisian social scene this past winter_ did away with any doubt that it was someone other than Mojgan's husband.

He folded the paper, and turned to staring out the darkening window.

When the train at last disgorged its passengers in Paris, twilight was approaching. Erik hailed a cab, but instead of asking for the Opera, he found himself saying. "Rue de Rivoli. Near the Tuileries."

In good time, he found himself ascending the stairs up to Nadir's apartment, traveling case in one hand and uncased guitar in the other. He knocked on the doorframe lightly with his elbow.

There was shuffle from within the apartment, a cautious sliver opened to reveal Darius's face. When he saw Erik, his eyes widened in surprise and the door along with it.

"Well, do you announce me or do I announce myself?" Erik asked. He had come here almost in a haze, but now found himself fatigued and grumpy from his trip.

"Is that Erik?" Nadir's voice came from the parlor. "Just when I thought things could not get any worse…"

That was announcement enough for Erik, who set his things down in the hallway and went in. It surprised him to see Mojgan there, attired in what struck him as a less formal, loose gown that reminded him of the days in Mazandaran. It surprised him even more to see the Daroga's familiar look of annoyance—turned on Mojgan. Erik was not entirely sure what to do with that.

"I would like to make clear," he ended up saying, as a way of cutting through the strange silence, "that I did not kill this husband, either."

"No one suggested that you did," Mojgan replied. She did not sound amused, but nor did she sound upset. If anything, she sounded and looked tired.

"Not yet." Erik received a flicker of Nadir's green gaze for just a moment before it returned to Mojgan.

"I still have some little time to make arrangements," she said, apparently picking up the thread of a previous conversation.

"Yes," Nadir deadpanned. "Some _little_ time. Joonam, you do not know what you're doing."

A spark came up into her eyes, the likes of which Erik had only seen a handful of times in years past. Her lips were set in a line of determination. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But all the same…"

Erik glanced between the two of them. "And if I may ask, what _are_ you doing?"

Mojgan favored him with a frank look in the eyes. "I have decided not to go back."

No, Erik was decidedly not omniscient. He would not have guessed that she would say _that._


	44. Than What I Sell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bit of story backtracking, because, again, I love Darius. I think this is his last POV chapter, and I wanted to make sure he had some kind of closure in his own words.

It had been a long time since Darius had been awoken in the middle of the night by a messenger. He was slow to wake up at the knock on the door, and slow to rise once he did. The flat was not large, and while Darius was the one to answer the door, the Daroga was not long in emerging from his own bedroom.

He stood while the Daroga looked over the contents of the message, waiting to find out who and what was the matter. The Daroga did not relay the contents to him. Nor did he issue some vague command, but simply handed the note over to Darius to read for himself. Lady Mojgan. The death of her husband. Some short details. Could they come to call soon? He was not surprised that she wrote as clearly and concisely as a good police report.

Darius looked over at the Daroga in expectation.

"I will go," the Daroga said.

"And I?"

"You're free to return to your sleep," he said. "Though, I would not mind the company."

That was all the invitation Darius required, and within the hour they were standing before the grand Palais-Borbon townhouse Mojgan resided in. The all-French staff did not hesitate to admit them once the Daroga presented his card.

Mojgan met them in the parlor and smiled in grim humor. "I do promise that I did not come to Paris with the intention of repeating _all_ of my past."

This time, there were no surprises for Darius. He was, truthfully, quite relieved to see how little she had changed in the intervening decades. The Daroga sat with her, and Darius played the butler. The spoke of practical things. One of Reza's aides had also been lodged in the townhome, but he had taken himself away to inform the embassy. He would be given other accommodations, he said, so that the Khanum could stay in residence.

"I will not be relying on your hospitality this time, at least," Mojgan said.

"Good," the Daroga said. "I haven't a house with guest rooms anymore." They all knew that if the need arose, the Daroga would give up his own room for her and sleep on a floor somewhere. But that hardly needed to be said.

The diplomatic mission took care of the funeral itself, and in very short order, Reza Gholi Khan was interred in the Muslim enclosure of Père Lachaise. Darius was familiar with the cemetery. It was, after all, where he expected to one day be buried. They went to the funeral, which was quieter than any other one Darius had attended. They went on the third day, as well, and on the seventh. That last time it was just the Daroga and Mojgan, Darius trailing a step behind them.

Mojgan laid down fresh flowers, the very first of early spring's hyacinths, irises, and jonquils. She tapped the gravestone thoughtfully and sprinkled rose water over the grounds with careful, practiced motions. She spoke more of this husband than she had the first time she had been widowed, wry comments that spoke more of affectionate friendship than deep love. For all the kind words, it was the first time Darius had really seen her look her age. He knew her hair was still dark under her black hat and veil, but her skin had faded in the weak winter sunlight. It seemed to be pulled over the bones of her face now, gaunt where there had once been the fresh firmness of youth. Her pretty eyes, too, were lost to the dark circles underneath them. She had not looked so worn, Darius thought, in the early hours of that fatal morning. But now, a week on, the full weight of death had settled on her.

"Shall we return to the townhouse?" the Daroga asked, as Darius commandeered a carriage for them.

Mojgan shrugged. "I am sorry to say that it slipped my mind to leave instructions for the staff—they are all French. They will not have thought to put together anything special there." She paused for a moment. "Actually, I have something to discuss with you that I'd prefer to keep private. May we go to your apartment for a bit?"

It was silent journey there. Darius wondered if by _private,_ she meant truly just between herself and the Daroga. He told himself he would not be stung by the exclusion, but was still relieved when she gestured for him to stay in the parlor.

"I have been thinking about what comes next," she said. "The embassy is trying to make arrangements for my return—once my mourning period is elapsed. It has been difficult, as there is not some easy companion to accompany me."

"I would do it," the Daroga said at once. "If only I could." He started thinking aloud of others he knew, the married men whose European wives might be persuaded to venture into the heathen East. But Mojgan held up a staying hand.

"Nadir," she said, very quietly. "I said that is what the _embassy_ is doing. I was not consulted in it at all. And I find… I have other wishes."

Darius ignored the whistle of the kettle coming from the kitchen. It may have been impertinent to stare at a lady, but both he and the Daroga did so.

"Yes?" the Daroga asked.

"I do not intend to return to Iran," she said. "There is nothing for me there."

The Daroga was a long time in replying. Darius could tell he was surprised, and perhaps bemused. "You may find… that you feel differently in days to come."

She shook her head a little. "Perhaps. But I am willing to run that risk." She paused a little, as if trying to sort out her words. "The problem is not one of making a decision. I have done that. It is now a… legal question."

Before she could launch into further details, there was a knock. And just as Darius had never seen Mojgan look so careworn, he also never had seen her look so startled at a normal sound. What _was_ it she meant to do, that made her so ill at ease?

Everything paused for a time, and Darius was not sure if he should be relieved or not when the _jadugar_ came in—Erik, he reminded himself firmly. Just a man named Erik.

Predictably, he had a very different reaction to Mojgan's news. "If it's merely a matter of a passport, that is easy. It is not difficult to have papers made. Indeed, I am quite sure I could manage a convincing set." He seemed a bit insulted by the ensuing silence. "Or I have a man who made mine. They have served me quite well these past ten years."

The Daroga rubbed his eyes tiredly. "That is all a consideration for another day. Mojgan, you and I both know that this is not a matter of extending your sojourn until it pleases you to return."

She nodded. "I know. I know that by defying the embassy's plans now, I will not be able to call on them again in the future. I know that the _ways_ I might need to defy them could make it… quite dangerous for me, even here. I am satisfied to set my face in one direction and not look back—provided I may choose the direction. But the one thing I do _not_ want to do is bring trouble on your head. And so…"

Darius found himself leaving the room. He went to the kitchen, and spent much longer than usual straightening things and preparing food for the evening. He dropped his spoon more than once, agitated, and finally took a moment to sit. He could not quite articulate what was in his heart. Annoyance? No, it was deeper. Anger? No, something colder. Grief? Yes, grief. Well, he wasn't a boy any more. He pulled himself together and returned to the group, but found it on the verge of dispersal.

"Good, Darius," the Daroga said, "Mojgan needs to be returned home."

Erik spoke up, "I—"

"No, you are staying here to talk with _me,_ " the Daroga growled.

"Of course," Darius cut in before anything else could be said. "My lady?"

She nodded and rose. She went up to the Daroga first. "I will think on what you've said, Nadir. But I am afraid that I have made up my mind. Are you angry with me?"

The Daroga shook his head. "Worried. Not angry."

She took leave of Erik next, something about 'tomorrow' passing between them, but Darius did not stay to hear the particulars. He went out to hail a cab off the main street, and then brought Mojgan down to it. He sat in the backwards-facing seat, and remained silent for many minutes.

She peered at him curiously, as the last remnants of the sunset faded. "Are you cross with me, as well, Darius? Do you think I am being very foolish?"

"…I don't quite understand you," he replied at length. "I do not know why you would make such a decision."

"Ah. That is between me and the birds," she replied, not unkindly. "I admit, I thought I would find the good Daroga a bit more understanding. I suppose time has colored my memories: I had always felt like he had let me have my way. But I do not love him less for his sternness, and I am sorry if I have distressed him."

There was no need for Darius to reply to this, and he could have—should have—kept his place. But as he looked at her, he felt compelled to try to say something of what was trapped in his heart.

"It is the voice of his experience speaking, not his distress. To stay here," he said slowly, "Lady, it is a… terrible thing."

"Are you so very unhappy in France?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. It's a life like any other life: some good days, and some bad. I think that if I simply had the option to go back, I would be content to stay. It is knowing that I will never go home again… to _choose_ that…" the words faded off. What more was there to say?

"You _could_ return," Mojgan said, grave. "You are not under the same sentence as Nadir."

"Ah, no." He gestured vaguely in the direction they had come from. "He is my only family. What is a home without family? That would be more terrible still."

It startled him when her gloved hand reached across to touch his sleeve, if only for a moment. "You are such a good man, Darius," she said quietly. "I don't think I've ever met your equal for loyalty. You have a thousand times the honor of a hundred princes of the blood."

"Lady, I did not tell you for your pity." He knew his face was burning. "I told you because you are undertaking something very difficult. When I left Mazandaran, I knew it would be hard—but not _how_ hard."

"And knowing that now," she said, her words very deliberate, "would you have made a different choice?"

There was no reply he could make but the truth. "No, I don't think I would have."

"Nor, I think, will I regret my choice," she said quietly. "Home stopped being home long ago. I must follow your example and make a new one for myself." She quirked a smile at him. "And it is not pity, Darius. It is respect."

When he returned to the flat, he found the Daroga alone. He had dug out the old water pipe from some cramped cupboard and sat smoking by the window.

"She has good enough reasons," he said without preamble. "It is not as foolish of a fancy as I had first thought. You and I both know the life that awaits her when she returns—ah, if she could be but _satisfied._ I never knew her to be so discontented with her lot in life in years past."

"Forgive me, Daroga," Darius said, "but I believe the same might be said of any of us."

The Daroga snorted. "Even Erik." He sat puffing at his pipe for a few minutes. "I suppose it is too much to hope that you somehow convinced her to rethink staying abroad?"

"No, though I did try."

"I thought you might."

"What is it that you mean to do for her?" Darius asked. He was remembering the days of hiding Mojgan away in the guest rooms, with a rifle at the ready. What, he had to ask himself across the years, had he thought to do with the rifle? He was a terrible shot. And yet, at the time, it had seemed the natural and heroic thing to do. Darius had much less interested in heroics now than he had had at seventeen. But if the Daroga _did_ have something he wanted done—well, Darius would do his best.

"There isn't anything I can do for her," the Daroga said instead. "I have no diplomatic sway here or there. I can offer no protection if her request goes badly. The silly girl has a head for numbers, I'll grant you. She has as good a handle on what she can do with banks and the resources at her disposal as any man might. Her only real concern about us is that we might be a liability to one another. She is in uncharted territory, and worries that we might suffer for it."

"And?"

"And? Oh, and we might. I don't know of anyone who wishes us ill here in Paris, but nor do I know of anyone who holds us in affection either." The Daroga pushed his pipe away and stood. "And yet, I did not use that as an argument to dissuade her. Curious."

Darius put out a simple supper for the Daroga and made some half-hearted excuse to slip away. He found himself walking the familiar steps of their street, coming to a pause at the corner. He took a deep breath, the air still chilly in these days just before spring. He tried to see the stars through the effluence of the city. There—the North Star was just bright enough to see peeking out of the constellation of Deb Asghar. The stars were the same, he reminded himself, even if they were harder to see here.

"Are we both escaping our duties?"

He turned sharply to see Irène Lantins stealing out of the front door of her home. Even with the streetlamps lit, she was mostly hidden in the shadows. She had traded her black widow's weeds for soft purples and greys in recent weeks. Darius, ever the tailor's son, thought they suited her delicate coloring far better than the severe black, but he was in no mood to be complimentary.

Still, he could not help but be _polite_ , even in the face of his fatigue and the sadness he could not shake. "Your mother?"

It may have been a trick of the shadows, but he thought he saw her roll her eyes. "I don't want to speak of _Mama_ just now. Tell me, Monsieur Darius, what is it that has you looking so pensively up there at the stars?"

He meant to demur. He meant to wall up the sense of defeat and isolation that had invaded his very soul this day. He meant to perhaps even flirt a bit, a distraction to while away this stolen quarter of an hour.

Instead, he told her of the blue of the Caspian and the white of Damavand and the green of Mazandaran. She listened, and he felt better for it.


	45. Is What I Gain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we only have ten chapters left… and a lot of ground to cover.

Erik mentally reviewed the set phrases of the social niceties as an actor might rehearse his lines before opening night. In the privacy of the hired carriage, he discarded various conversational gambits, adjusted where he might place emphasis in professional statements, and lamented his costuming.

It was always a gamble, deciding how to present himself to new acquaintances. A full mask was how he was most comfortable but he knew this often excited more curiosity than it was worth. Even his newest mask that he had made in Nice would not pass muster in close quarters, especially hatless. The false nose and moustache did little to hide his ugliness, but at least made him tolerable to look at it and raised no questions. He had made a recent addition of a wig, which vexed him greatly. He had at least had a decent head of hair in his youth. Its gradual loss over the last decade was insulting in its normalcy. This morning, on a whim, he had decided that _glasses_ would be a suitable final touch. He was wrong. The arms were too tight and wanted to tangle in the wig. But he had taken the precaution of adhering them slightly to the nose—taking off the one item would be the destruction of the entire disguise.

He blamed his current conundrum on a lack of sleep, which he in turn blamed on the Daroga.

He had just meant to stop in on the Daroga. He had meant to tell him of his upcoming employment, presenting this fait-almost-accompli as proof of his competency. The old man would not dare shake his head at what Erik chose to do with his life! And then he would be off, to get a good night's rest and put his papers in order before appearing at the solicitor's office at a very civilized late morning hour.

The evening had not gone according to plan. Even after the errand boy had escorted Mojgan back to her townhome, Erik had stayed with Nadir for several hours. The Daroga, it seemed, took great exception to the fact that Erik had offered his help. But why? He did not think that what Mojgan wanted to do was wrong, nor particularly difficult. Erik had disappeared and started over so many times in his own life that it seemed like quite the usual thing to do. Apparently, that was not the case for well-bred women.

…Or perhaps the issue the Daroga took exception to was that Mojgan appeared inclined to _accept_ Erik's help, such as it was.

Well, the Daroga clearly did not know what he wanted. One moment, he wanted Erik to learn how to live like a proper man above ground; the next, he wanted him to rescind a perfectly chivalrous offer of aid to a lady in distress. Clearly, the years were taking a toll on Nadir's wits. Poor fellow—Erik knew what it was like for the mind to slip away. That the older man was clearly worried about… _all_ of them was not something Erik could help. Life, to everyone's surprise, simply marched on.

With that thought in mind, Erik gave a final, fatalistic adjustment to his wig and his cravat, and alighted from his cab.

Charles Garnier must have done an uncommonly good job of preparing the architectural firm's lawyers for Erik's arrival. There was little small talk and many eyes kept studiously fixed just above Erik's head. He read over the contracts quickly, signed them, and offered his hand to the solicitor. The man only hesitated for a moment before accepting the handshake. They had a clerk hail a cab for Erik again.

That was that. In ten days, Erik would be expected in Rouen at the construction site of the Opera House. It almost boggled the mind.

He had the carriage drop him in front of the post office on the Boulevard des Capucines. There were no messages awaiting 'O.G.' He supposed he had seen the last of those.

He made his way through the secret passages off the Rue Scribe, silent in his reflections. These stones—some of them he had set. These pathways—they had been the way home for so long. This building—he had been its heart, secretly beating and giving life and breath to the body of the theater. And yet, it seemed that every step he took into the cellars of the Opera brought him a little further away from its reality. No more would this be home. No more would this be life.

Erik did not know how he _felt_ about that. He simply knew that it _was._ For the moment, he was the anchorless, rudderless ship being carried by the currents. Where it would land him—who could say? He had always been surprised by where he ended up. And wherever it was that the currents washed him to, he would find himself thinking, _I suppose this is the place I shall die._

But that had not happened. Yet.

He made a rough inventory of his home for the second time in recent memory. He noted what he should arrange to take with him at once, and what could wait for some future removal. He passed by the closed entryway of the mirrored room and thought of what things could stay behind entirely. He would have lost himself in the business of moving bits of this life into his new one, had he not had a second appointment to keep. The hours passed in a myriad small tasks. He listened for the chiming clock in the sitting room. When it went eleven, he made to leave. He paused at his front door, eyes locked on the black waters in front of him.

Yes. It really was time to go. Wasn't it?

* * *

Mojgan had expressed some concern about his ability to steal into her townhome undetected. Erik assured her that he was still perfectly capable of finding his way into a second story window with the greatest stealth.

(The Daroga, for some reason, had replied to this assurance with a groan. Not that it had concerned him in the least.)

And, indeed, Erik was quick to find the address she had given him, quick to identify the curtained window that would lead into her boudoir, and quick to make friends of the shadows that would disguise his entrance. Thanks to the latch being left off, his entry caused barely a stir.

The room was lit by a low fire and a small kerosene lamp. Mojgan was in the chair closest to the lamp, a book in hand. She rose with a smile, and led Erik to another dimly-lit seat, well out of view of the door.

"The doors are locked," she said, her voice kept low. "And there shouldn't be anyone in this part of the house at this hour as it is. The staff is accustomed to me sitting up late."

Erik nodded, nevertheless scanning the small room. A doorway led to a bedroom, another presumably to the hallways. All was quiet in the house. He turned his attention back to Mojgan, dressed in a heavy peignoir and slippers. She must have caught his glace, for she shrugged.

"I couldn't very well tell my maids I had gone to bed while dressed for dinner," she said. "Besides, it isn't as though you haven't seen my ankles before—imagine the scandal _that_ would have caused in Paris, if I had brought my short skirts and anklets from home."

"Do you miss them?" he asked, amused. He matched her low tone.

"Not enough to return to where I can wear them," she shot back. "I also couldn't very well have the maids leave a tea service for two. But I have wine, if you'd like?" She was already pouring out one glass.

Erik shook his head.

"Are you sure? It's an excellent Tokay, and I know you are fond of your sweet wines. And I'm afraid that I am known to leave more than one glass littered about my rooms, so we needn't worry about having too many cups left out as Nadir would otherwise remind us."

"Tempting, but no," he gestured to his face, covered almost entirely by a dark mask so as to blend in with the shadows. "I did not dress with a view to indulging in wine."

She paused, with a second wine glass in hand. "Erik," she said gently. "I _have_ seen your face."

That startled him. "When?" She looked like she did not want to answer him, but he fixed her with a serious stare. " _When?_ "

"The day the Shah—" she gestured vaguely at her eyes.

The day the Shah had tried to have his eyes gouged out. If he tried, he had some vague memory of seeing Mojgan soon after that mess and… well, when would he have had the chance to put on a new mask in between? He pushed those thoughts away and huffed out a breath. "Well. Well. Be that as it may, Erik does not want to put you off your wine. Especially if it is excellent Tokay."

She looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded. "That is your choice, Erik. For your own comfort. You needn't think of mine. Excuse me—I think I need a shawl." She set the wine glass next to Erik and slipped into the next room. Erik glanced at her retreating back, and then at the glass. He found he had time to slip off his mask and take a few appreciative sips before he heard Mojgan's steps return. Given the careless way her cashmere shawl was tossed over one shoulder, Erik knew he had guessed right: it had been a kind pretense.

When she sat again, her tone was businesslike. "I'm glad you came. There was much I did not want to say to Nadir, in case he is asked later. I did not want to put him in the position of lying for me. But I feel like I need to speak with _someone_."

"I do not know if I will be much help _talking_ to," Erik said. "My use has always been in the doing."

"Well, something will need to be done. I'm just not sure quite what." She pulled a note out of her book and handed it over to Erik. "I wrote to Naveed—I have known him the longest out of Reza's aides, and I thought I would find him the most sympathetic."

Erik glanced over the note, its letters squiggling on the paper. "I confess, it has been a long time since I've tried to read this much Persian." He could pick out a few familiar phrases, but otherwise did not want to resort to sounding out the consonants.

"Well, Naveed was clearly misnamed," she sighed. "He did not bring me good news. I'm not sure if it's a matter of 'can't or 'won't,' but the result is he _isn't_ going to help."

"And so that is the end of your official channels?" Erik asked.

"Oh, I could go down the entire list of Reza's staff and then start in on the embassy, but Naveed was useful in that respect at least. He let me know in a few, shall we say, well-chosen words that the current interests lie in filling the power vacuum Reza left. Aiding me in this might be viewed as more of a hindrance to that end, rather than a help."

"I don't suppose someone might think to combine the two?" Erik asked significantly.

Mojgan snorted. "Someone might _think_ it."

"But not put it into practice?"

"Do you know, Erik," she said, "I have been lucky with my husbands. I have married two men, and it turned out that I liked both of them. But if I marry again, I would want to do things in reverse: _like_ the man, and marry him _because_ of that."

Ah, what a different life she had lived! To speak of finding not one or two, but perhaps _three_ of life's companions as if it was a simple matter of choice. What would that be like? " _Do_ you think to marry again?" Erik asked, morbidly interested in this novelty. "Politically or otherwise?"

The question brought her up short, and she spent a time in blinking silence. "I—don't know. I suppose that is a thought for a different day. But I will _not_ be marrying another Persian politician."

"Not to sound like the Daroga haranguing you," Erik said, "but I would assume you have contacts outside of Persian politicians."

She grimaced. "Of a sort. I am not well-established here in France. The wives of envoys mix less in company here than in the other places I've been. Perhaps the Princess Trubetskoy? She's been known to go to great lengths to help a friend, but she is unpredictable and if things go wrong and my primary associate is Russian?" She made an incongruously delicate gesture of slitting her throat. "I dare not call on those I know in England: the international ramifications could be dire. We were most in society in Italy, and there may be those I can call on." She shook her head. "But I want to be done with this life. No more _la femme publique._ God give me death. _"_ She poured more wine into her glass. "You must think me a fool. _I_ think I'm a fool." She drank. "I am afraid."

Erik stepped away for a moment, to follow her example and drink his wine. He readjusted his mask, and let his quiet voice carry over to her. He knew her talk of death was just a quirk of her mother tongue. And yet… every time _he_ had spoken in Persian about death, it had been in all seriousness. "What of?"

"Failure," she said. "Success. Going home. Staying abroad."

"Ah," Erik said as he resumed his seat. "The Unknown. I am well acquainted with her. Fickle mistress, to be sure. But she loses some of her powers of intimidation if you are not alone." Or so Erik assumed. He had no practical experience on that score. It still sounded like a reasonable thing to say.

She shook her head. "When I first came to Paris, and learned Nadir was here—learned _you_ were here—I was so happy." Her voice turned meditative. "I did not know what it meant to be truly isolated until the day after you left me at my father's house. Oh, I was relieved to be free of the Sultana! But home was never home again. I did not think I was bothered by being alone, but when Reza came my way, I certainly took the chance. I thought perhaps his world would be a good compromise for me. Safe from the things I feared, but not quite so black and white as my little life in Ghazvin. I was wrong. My secret terrors remained my secret terrors." Now her voice took on an uncharacteristic note of bitterness. "I did not realize that I had been hoping for someone to save me. And here I am again— I saw you and Nadir and I thought, _Here is someone who knows. Someone who does not need an explanation._ "

_Shall I tell you about my cellar full of wet gunpowder? You may not be so quick to confide your fears in the monster who did that._ But Erik held his tongue, and simply said, "Much has happened since… those days."

"You mean you might not _actually_ be able to read my mind?" she said with a sudden smile. "Yes. I know. But do I really need to tell you why I am frightened to return to Tehran as the only woman outside of the royal harem to have spent time in Europe?" Erik shook his head in a mute negative. "Well, then. That's more than I can say for anyone else. And, _margeh man,_ I am not explaining myself to _Naveed._ "

There it was again: death, death, death. How was it Erik had not realized at the time how the obsession with blood was woven into the very fabric of the language? Oh, he knew that was not the whole story of Persia: he knew that there was good food and close families, beautiful art and heroic histories. There were millions of people who lived their lives happily and died peacefully. But that had not been _Erik's_ life there—and it saddened him to realize that had not truly been Mojgan's life, either.

Wasn't it enough for the Shah's court to gather its foreign novelties to abuse and discard? Did it also need to eat its own children? Perhaps Mojgan did not need to wear a mask to hide what twists and cuts her time there had wrought on her—her own skin did that well enough. But Erik became suddenly aware of a mismatch of the smooth, coolly polite face she maintained even as she said _God give me death_.

…At least her mask was protecting something _good._

"So, then," he said softly, "you disappear."

"You make it sound simple," she said. "It's anything but."

"The _aide_ ," Erik said with his typical disinterest in the satellites of powerful men, "has already said you are not worth an international incident." Mojgan raised her eyebrows at his phrasing, but then nodded in agreement. "If you choose to ignore politics, politics may well choose to ignore you."

"I do agree," she said, "or at least hope. I have no official standing outside of Reza. But therein is a source of trouble: I have _no_ official standing. I have no identity outside of the Persian diplomatic missions. You say that it is easy enough to get new papers and a new name: fine, I trust you. But my fortune back in Iran will be lost to me. And the resources I can command here are… limited, without Reza."

"But not, I think, nonexistent," Erik murmured. He was starting to see her situation sort itself out before his mind's eye: there, a tangle to be cut through. There, an objection to be circumvented. It had been easier to speak with her than he would have guessed. As much as he pushed aside thoughts of Mazandaran, there was something about this dim boudoir that reminded him of old talks in the twilight. They used to keep secrets from one another, he knew. He had never— _would never_ —confessed the extent of his crimes. She had never violated the privacy of her dead husband. They never spoke of those days they had passed one another coming and going in the palace. But for all that, the words they had _spoken_ had always been honest. It appeared that old habits, even _very_ old habits, died hard. And that was why he could tease her with confidence: "Or have you changed so much from the girl who fled with nothing more than an attaché case of deeds and jewelry?"

She struggled not to laugh, and ended up biting a finger to keep from making too much noise. "I suppose not. But I will only have what I can carry." She took a deep breath, and then nodded with something like her old determination. "But I can carry quite a bit."

"Then it is settled," Erik said.

"Is it?" The eyebrows were truly flying now.

"You shall start anew," he said grandly. It was easy to declare it so, as if it was another simple line in a play, and not a woman's whole life. "May I have a few days to think how that might be accomplished?"

She replied with her own facetiously dignified nod. "You have thirty-one." A pause. "Or, rather, not. You're leaving."

Oh, that. Rouen had flown from his mind for the past hour. Truthfully, he had been glad to put it from his mind. Though now, with the cogs of his mind running, he thought Rouen may not be quite so bad. "It's time enough," he said. As an afterthought, he added, "You said you trusted me, Mojgan." _Unwise as that may be._

She smiled over the rim of her once-again refilled wine glass. "I do. Will you be sorry to leave Paris? Nadir said you have been here many years."

It was a troubling question, one without an easy answer. "What was it you said earlier? Home was never home again?" Deciding that he would still be quite capable of scaling down the second story after two glasses of wine, Erik held out his glass for Mojgan to refill. Her hand wasn't quite as steady as it had been, but she still had the decency to concern herself with pointedly looking down to rearrange the ruffles on her peignoir and the fringes on her shawl until she heard him set the glass back down. "How much _has_ the Daroga said?"

"About?..." she asked, in a way that let Erik know she had heard far too much from the old man.

"Where I live, for instance," he prompted.

"I know that you have a flat in the Palais Garnier," she said, "you built it, after all."

Erik was loathed to confess that he had not, in fact, singlehandedly built the Opera House and so merely nodded.

"How long have you been there?"

"Six, seven years?" He said. "It was a convenient bolt-hole during the civil unrest of the Paris Commune and I thought—why not make it comfortable in the meantime? I have never been a revolutionary, you see, and was not about to start with a lost cause. I had come to the project just a few months before to help with a problem with the water pumps, so the bowels of the building were already my domain."

"Have you ever been involved with a building project and _not_ seen it as your domain?"

"No," he answered truthfully. "But sometimes it is… truer than other. I think the Opera might be the truest of all, for all it is called the _Garnier_."

"Even more than Roshaneh Darya?" Mojgan asked, and it took Erik a moment to realize she meant the palace in Mazandaran—his Kingdom by the Sea.

" _Infinitely."_

She nodded slowly. "And so you've been there ever since."

"Not quite. The Commune ended. Work on the opera house continued. I made it clear to the architect and the foreman that I could be… useful. And so I was. But for those few years, I did not always stay here. I would rent this or that little garret, where the landlords did not care if rent was paid by an envelope slipped under their door. When the neighbors when get nosy—" or violent, he omitted— "I would find some other place that met the same description." Not _bad_ days, those. Enough of the workmen had bought his story of a terrible construction accident to not comment or care too much about the mask. And apparently the impression he had had that Charles Garnier almost liked him had been correct. "But then the Paris Opera came home to the Garnier, and what had simply been a building suddenly became… much more."

"Of course," Mojgan broke in. "It's the music."

"Yes."

"It's always been the music," she said, almost a murmur to herself. "The buildings were so marvelous one could be blinded by them—but the music."

Erik knew what she was speaking of. Music on tars and geychecks, songs sung with guttural _ghs_ and aspirated _khs_. Still music, but not quite _his_ music—even when he was playing his own compositions.

He wondered if she actually had a notion of that fact, for she suddenly asked, "Do you remember when you tried to teach me the piano?"

He did. He remembered brief moments while her husband was still alive, when he would tag along behind Nadir during a visit, and show her a chord or two. He remembered far longer afternoons, when she was a widow, bringing her new scales. They had been happy moments: starlight pricking out through the growing darkness. He released a breath, suddenly conscious that he had been holding it in. For some reason, he didn't seem capable of answering that question. "I think we should go to the opera," he said instead. "I promised to show you the Garnier, after all."

"I—" she paused for a moment, a strange play of emotions flickering over her face. Erik couldn't quite parse them out: a little surprise, perhaps, something like pleasure, but then a sharp-edged cynicism. "I think I would enjoy that. It's a pity I can't be seen out of seclusion."

"Ah." Erik's first impulse was to call her bluff: clearly, she simply didn't want to go out with _him_ , be seen with _him_. But how did that fit with what he knew to be true of Mojgan? It didn't. There was, however, one way to be certain. "You forget, my dear," he said in grandiose tones, "that _I_ am a _magician._ "

"Ah," she replied, with a flash of a smile. "That, I've _never_ forgotten. The opera, and then I disappear. Is that the general idea?" He nodded and then stood. It was rapidly coming up on three in the morning. She also stood, and offered her hand again. "Now, would the magician like directions to the back door, or would he rather try his luck out of the window?"


	46. Land Where

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter was cobbled together from pieces written over the course of several years, all trying to convey too much information. As such, it's the longest chapter to date and probably not the most coherent. Also: did you know that I'm an opera enthusiast in addition to a Phantom of the- enthusiast? Well, you'll see for yourself soon enough.

Dear Shadi,

I know I previously wrote that I would not dwell on my years with Reza, but I find I _must_ tell you of the first time I went to the opera. It had not even been a full year since I had left Ghazvin, and suddenly I was in Rome. Out of all of Reza's postings I accompanied him to, Italian society was the most welcoming. That was, perhaps, why he had taken a detour there. We were constantly dining at someone's house, or picnicking at someone's country villa. My Italian was atrocious, but Reza had been right to have me brush up on my French: it was the default language of diplomacy.

When Reza told me _pull out one of those proper evening gowns with a low neck_ , _we've been invited to the opera_ I thought it was just one more social event to make my head spin. And it was, in a way. We arrived in the evening at the Teatro Argentina, were ushered into a poky wooden box of that ancient theater, and sat. I had no idea what to expect, and Reza's explanation of _It's_ the Barber of Seville, _cara sposa_ did nothing to prepare me.

How to explain the shock of hearing an orchestra—a real, proper orchestra—for the first time? That twisting overture that starts so cheerfully and then transforms into the curious give-and-take of the strings came to life all around me. My poor heart! How was I to know that _Ecco, ridente in cielo_ was just a little cavatino when I had never heard of bel canto before? What was I supposed to do with Figaro's patter? With Rosina's aria, or the quartet, or a _thunderstorm?_ I was lucky to understand one word out of a hundred, but something in that music resonated in my very bones.

I was soon begging Reza to take me to operas whenever possible, which he indulged. He did not quite share my passion for them, but at least had more appreciation for music than Feridoon had. We saw Adelina Patti in Italy and Christina Nilsson in London. We heard Georg Unger sing Siegfried, with his wife Marie as the teasing Waldvogel, at the house of an acquaintance.

And yet none of that quite prepared me for attending the opera with Erik. He sent a note around to the house the morning after our long talk, detailing what I should wear, when I should slip away, and where I should meet him. That was all well and good, but it would still be impossible without taking someone in the house into my confidence, which I hesitated to do. But when the morning of our appointment arrived, I steeled myself. I was proposing to do a far more challenging thing soon: I had to learn to screw up my courage and keep it there alone.

I told my maid to put out a plain black dress for the evening, and confessed that I was going out. "Just a little family gathering," I said. "I am absolutely losing my mind here alone." She was sympathetic, and so I continued. "If someone should call, have them leave a message. I am not at home…" I considered my words carefully, "to visitors."

"But of course, Madame," she said, with a perfectly straight face. "You cannot accept visitors when you have a headache."

I turned to look at her closely. Her face was entirely innocent. "Headache?"

"It is the wind," she shrugged. "I am sure it is a day for headaches. You will probably want to keep to your boudoir most of the day, as it is. Now, Madame, are you sure you want the _quite_ plain black?"

And so I was able to leave in a carriage pulled around to the side entrance, dressed in nondescript black. The maid had thrown a sheer silk scarf over my coiffure before I left. I had absentmindedly started pinning it beneath my chin, but she tsked and arranged the ends to fall becomingly behind my shoulders. I wish I could remember her name.

If the coachman thought it was odd that I had asked to be dropped off on a little side street near the Palais Garnier, he made no comment—merely accepted his fare and tip and headed away.

"Well, Erik," I murmured, "Here I am." I thought I was talking to myself and the empty shadows, but almost at once, a little gate creaked open.

"And here I am," he said. He sounded amused. "Madame? If you will follow me?"

I had the good sense to be wary of Erik's secret passageways—I would be hard pressed to ever forget the occasion I had been in them in Mazandaran—but that was allayed by actually being escorted by Erik.

"I've been to quite a few operas," I told him, "but I usually go in through the _front_ door."

"Ah, but you are embarking on a life of intrigue and trickery," he said, "you will find there are very few front doors that will be open to you."

I knew he was grinning beneath that dark mask. I knew that he meant the words to tease. But I also knew there was truth in them, and I was not sure what to do with that. In my distraction, I stumbled in the dark and reached out to steady myself on Erik's arm. He tensed beneath my hand, but after a moment, slowed and helped me find my feet again.

"Now, now," he said, singsongish. "None of that. We can't have you falling into the water and catching a cold."

It was a strange journey we took: by boat over the reservoir, up abandoned service stairways, winding in between old set pieces in storage, through cramped hidden passageways. What little light there had been faded until we were in almost complete darkness, Erik guiding me with the softest hold on my hand. Eventually, I started to hear the familiar sound of the orchestra tuning and of an audience settling. We stopped. Erik must have known that I was getting ready to ask a question, for his hand moved and one finger tapped my lips in a hushing motion. I was silent.

For all Nadir's exasperated comments that _Erik is still Erik,_ the quick familiarity I had been struck with upon seeing Erik again, the quirks and tics that seemed stuck to the man, there was no denying that I was meeting a _different_ Erik that night at the Garnier. He had always had a theatrical bent. Like all magicians, he had a knack for high drama and misdirection. But in those years in Mazandaran, it had always seemed like he was trying on disguises—which smoke and mirror act would keep him the safest?

Now, it felt as if his exaggerated gestures and pitch-perfect delivery were not entirely for show. Somewhere over the years, what I had thought of as affectations had sunk deeper.

It's that ordinary phenomenon of passing time: we do not notice the minute changes that we undergo day in and day out. But then the separation of perhaps only a few months can throw these little alterations into high relief, and suddenly we might perceive a strangeness not there before, even in those we are closest to.

It was really only a few months I had spent with Erik in Persia, and twenty years had passed since then. We were different people, and for the first time I became truly aware of that fact. So had Erik, I later found. But I also felt that this new Erik was worth getting to know. The old one had fallen into my life by happenstance. This time, it was a choice.

For all that, I will admit that I quickly grew uncomfortable in the dark enclosure Erik had us lingering in. I do not think we were there very long, but the minutes dragged and the walls closed in on me as the seconds ticked by. He must have sensed my discomfort, for he reached out and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. It was meant to be reassuring, but mostly I was consumed with the jealous thought that _he_ apparently could see quite well in the pitch blackness. I could never bear to tell him that the cramped darkness reminded me of the torture chamber in the moments before the light blazed. All I could comfort myself with was, _he's here this time. He knows the way out._

All of a sudden, the overture began. No grand swells to start with, but a soft interplay of flute and oboe that was overtaken by high strings and brass after a few minutes. It was at this point I felt Erik lean forward, heard the quiet pop of a latch, and soft light mercifully poured in. Erik stepped out first and then beckoned for me to follow. It was extremely disorienting to start out in the cellars and end in a balcony box of the auditorium—Box Five, as you know. Erik had engineered a hollow decorative pillar, with a well-hidden slide that allowed him to arrive undetected to this box. Sitting in second row in the box, with the curtains fixed in a strategic drape, meant we were all but invisible to the rest of the auditorium but could still command a decent view of the stage.

"It's _La Juive,_ " he said. He had that wonderful gift of manipulating his voice so that it stayed very low, but carried to the ear he wanted. "Have you seen it?"

I had not, though I have seen it many times since then. Erik whispered his commentary to me, sotto voce, throughout the production. _La Juive_ had been the first opera mounted at the Garnier to inaugurate its stage, and had stayed in the repertoire with varying degrees of polish. That night, it was beautifully done.

When Eleazar's aria echoes with those terrible words, _Rachel, it's me—me—_ me _who delivers you to the executioner_ , it cannot help but pierce the heart. I have heard it has become increasingly common for some companies to end on that dramatic line, and then proceed to the final scene of judgment. I cannot agree with that omission. As powerful as those words can be, how much more so to hear him then proclaim, _Rachel, you will not die!_ and then to find his heart turning back to the point where he instead says, _come die near your father—and forgive him for giving you the crown of a martyr._ No immovable convictions there, but the vacillations of the human heart.

No other art form plays out human folly on such a grand scale as does grand opera. And as I sat there, with Erik playing the secret impresario, I realized that this was the piece that had always been missing from the puzzle. At his sanest, at his safest, _this_ was what _still_ made Erik stand just left of center. Tigers tamed, teacups talking, trees teeming in a mirrored forest: they were simple displays of his talents, not a reflection of what was in his heart.

What was in his heart was this sweeping stage, with its mind-boggling ricochets between high drama and low comedy. The music he produced, which I had only ever heard with one voice or one instrument, was made for this orchestra with its hundred exceptional musicians. I had first heard opera as a mature woman, and it touched me. He had first experienced it as a very young man, a child really, and it transformed him. He would never have found contentment in a world without an opera house. And my mind turned back to Nadir's tale: of course, he would be drawn to a woman from this world, as well.

 _La Juive_ ends with needless tragedy piled upon needless tragedy, comeuppance that may be divine—or may be utterly mundane. Who is to say?

Just before the curtain fell, he again opened the pillar. "Backstage tour, Madame?"

I was giddy off the music and the heartbreak and so consented. I endured more dark and cramped passageways for Erik's sake. Our tour could not be as extensive as Erik would have liked— it was a Tuesday, the theater evening of choice for many branches of society, including the various diplomatic corps. We agreed that, while I would probably be able to slip unnoticed at some of the less hidden junctures of Erik's haunts (service corridors, or brief walks between hidden entrances, or the like,) it was not worth the risk.

"It would, in truth, take many days to show you the entirety of the Opera House," he commented. After a close call in a side corridor, Erik had taken me high into the auditorium, where we had a magnificent—if somewhat distorted—view of Lenepveu's ceiling, the muses inspiring their pet artists through every hour of the day and night. He spoke of movable mirrors in the foyer, of passages that would allow him to listen to managers and maestros alike. And through it all, he could point out some bone of the building, some refined detail that served to showcase the work of other artists. There really was no end to his genius, but having walked the halls of the Garnier, I could not help but feel there was something very sad about seeing the splendor he had helped create hidden behind mirrors and shadows.

Nevertheless, Erik had no cause to doubt how impressed I was with his work. It seemed like everything he touched was beautiful, and I told him so.

"Were that but so." He sounded pleased, but he also sighed. He asked if there was anything of particular note that I might wish to stay and see, after the crowds had faded.

"I would not mind seeing your home," I said.

He laughed shortly. "I am afraid it is bereft of the gilding that makes these halls shimmer so. It is, in fact, not very grand at all." After a long pause, he said, "but it will not be too far of a detour."

And so we descended again, and Erik grew more animated. We reached the lake again, and the little boat he had secreted, and Erik spoke of the creation of the waterways. It seemed an endless series of archways, some large and some small, filled with bracken water that might shimmer green for a moment in the light of Erik's lone lantern. The air was stale, far more so than the relatively direct path that we had paddled from the Rue Scribe, and I knew the squeaks of rats running along any little purchase to be found in the walls.

This was the very reason Erik had first come to the Garnier: a miscalculation with the pumps had caused the cistern to overflow and threatened the entire foundation of the building. Erik had the solution. And then, as he had said, the lower levels of the building became his domain.

His marvelous white marble palace rose up before my mind's eye. How much more fitting than these sewers! I remember what he had told me—that the palace had been built for a dream. And perhaps the rest of the Garnier had also been built for a dream, but that damp and dark place below ground? If that was a dream, I was sorry for it. Cynic though I was, even I believed dreams could be bigger than that.

…or perhaps, his dreams _were_ larger than that. When the labyrinth at last gave way to a gravel shore, and the shore cut a path up to something like an ordinary house, and the inside of the house turned out to be a study in normalcy, it struck me that perhaps that was the biggest dream of all. What did this new, older Erik want most in life? To be normal. And how difficult had that proved to be? As yet, it was unattainable.

And, in reality, what was it that _I_ most desired? I could not quite call it a _normal_ life, for I wanted more independence than what a woman was normally allowed. But, still, an ordinary one. One where I could go out walking, or riding, or perhaps even shopping and not wonder, _will this ruin my husband's career? Will my brother-in-law approve? Will this end in my death?_

None of those seemed like questions to ask oneself in Erik's parlor. It was homey, with its dark floral wallcoverings and somewhat austere mahogany furnishings. Books in half a dozen languages huddled together on their shelves, along with various pieces of bric-a-brac. A few empty vases, tied with black ribbons, stood on various surfaces. I wondered if his house in Nowshahr had been so commonplace. I had never been there, though he had visited my home plenty of times.

Erik poked the fire to life, and it was difficult to believe that this room had been the set piece against which so much pain and—yes, let's admit it—horror played out. I found myself looking up at the drapes that graced one of the walls. In an ordinary house, there might be a window there. I knew from Nadir that there _was_ a window behind the curtains, if smaller and higher up than what would be usual. I knew what was _behind_ that window: the one great question I could not reconcile, the miniature torture chamber.

Erik must have caught my gaze, for he heaved a sigh. "You wanted to see the flat? This is the only part worth the seeing anymore."

"It's comfortable," I said truthfully.

"Is it? I can't tell anymore," he fidgeted. "I doubt the Daroga would describe it so." His eyes flashed from under the shade of his mask. "He told you Erik lived here, after all. What else did he decide to share with you?"

I had no desire to see Erik on his guard against me. And I had had many long weeks to think over Nadir's story, and to compare it to what I knew of Erik.

The fact of the matter was, more than one woman had led Erik on a dance. He had no defense against feminine charms—mostly because they were usually the product of his own hopes and dreams, more than the efforts of the woman in question. I had watched the Sultana take advantage of his brilliant mind and desperate heart. Erik had done fearsome things for her, all for the promise of her laughter. I always suspected that he turned to her, not because she appealed to something dark in him, but because he did not think himself fit for anything better.

The little soprano was different, from what Nadir had said. Sweet. A _child_. Nothing dark came from her, but she had brought it out in him.

But that was the Daroga's opinion, and he was as prone to being overly harsh to Erik as he was to showing him unusual kindness. But if I really wanted to know about Christine Daaé and Erik, I would need to ask. And so I did.

He looked at me, one of those narrow, peering looks that came up when he was utterly baffled by something. I thought he might decline to answer at all, but, in fits and starts, he spoke of her. I let him talk, just as we used to, and the story came together. Again, I know you know some of the common knowledge of that affair. But I will tell you a few things that Erik told me that evening, in the interest of letting his side of the story be heard.

Christine Daaé came to the Garnier out of the Paris Conservatory, her place in which had been given out of deference to her patron, a well-respected professor, and the fact that anyone with ears could tell she had a good voice. A _good_ voice, not great. A respectable member of a great chorus, not a prima donna. I imagine that she had the face of a china doll and a figure both tall enough to command a stage and shapely enough to tempt a jaded chorus master probably helped. That, I should note, is my own opinion; the primary focus of Erik's description of Christine was her voice.

He loved music—he lived in an opera house—it followed that he would involve himself in the music of the opera house. (I think I'll leave the exact details of that arrangement for another letter.) He listened to rehearsals, he paid attention to new members of the chorus. He noticed Christine the instant her mouth opened in song.

 _Like a badly tuned Stradivarius,_ he said. A magnificent instrument just waiting for the hands of master. Such was the quality of her voice that even the strictest masters at the Conservatory failed to realize how mechanical her technique was. It was worse than that, Erik said: _her voice was soulless._

With Erik's clever brain, it did not take him long to ferret out her story: a poor little grieving girl, who thought nothing of her talent, and whose love for music was overshadowed by her sadness.

Those were the things he first loved her for: for her music—you can understand the excitement of one genius finally being able to speak with another genius—and for her grief. He thought that her grief helped color her soul into something recognizable to him. Without it, he was sure she would have been too pure for comprehension.

His love for her belonged in the nursery. Had they been thirteen, playing in the summer-sweet meadows and shores, it would have been a beautiful thing. But Erik had lived more than four decades in a wild and wicked world, and, at twenty, Christine wanted nothing more than to lay her ordinary griefs to rest and live as a young woman filled with talent and beauty might. Anyone with experience in the ways of the world might have guessed it was doomed from the start. And yet, there was something intriguing about the two of them, like something out of a fairytale gone wrong.

"Do you think," I asked as Erik lapsed again into silence, "there was some other way things might have gone? Some other way to have wooed and won her?"

I had the distinct impression that he was looking at me like I was a madwoman. "Yes," he said very drily. He gestured to his mask.

I caught his meaning at once, and I sighed. "If that is so, then she was not worthy of you." The words sounded patronizing and melodramatic in my ears, but I could not come up with a better way to express what I thought. Apparently, Erik did not find them to be so. He merely found them to be insupportable.

" _What?_ " Was the only thing he said in a reply, a high-pitched note of disbelief.

"There is more to love than a face," I said. I thought I had the right to speak on this subject. I could not help but remember my kind, gentle first husband. But to remember Feridoon's kindness also meant remembering the tangle of scars that gouged into his cheek and cut stark, haphazard lines through his beard and into his hair, the black gunpowder that freckled across his chest and arm and even on the less damaged side of his face. It was not some romantic image of heroic masculine beauty, not the face of a warrior prince. It was a tale of needless expense written on human flesh, and it was not pretty. Erik's face was also that of a survivor: of a spirit that would not die despite the body it was trapped in. But these were not words Erik was interested in hearing, and so I demurred. "You were right to give her leave to go with her young man. Let them grow old together. They will lose their beauty eventually, and if they are lucky, will find something more valuable will remain."

Erik huffed, rather like a walrus. He seemed to melt into his chair. Oh, how I remembered his sulks from his youth! I would not have thought it possible for that he might still throw himself into the sullens with such panache, and it almost brought a smile to my face. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you are right," he said petulantly. "And I suppose _Erik_ does not have that time to wait."

"No," I agreed, "it's a curious thing, getting old. You finally learn patience, but no longer have the time left to _be patient._ "

"Ah. Is that why you have decided to run away from home all of a sudden?" he asked pointedly.

"Oh, yes. Either that, or the fact that I am not sure I have a home to run away _from,"_ I lifted my eyebrows at him. "And is that why you are running to Rouen?"

"I am not running anywhere," he insisted. "I am engaged in a promising new professional venture. Rouen is a land of opportunity."

His tone may have been flippant, but it struck a chord in me. "Well. Well, then, perhaps I should just follow you there."

To Erik's credit, he did not immediately brush aside my half-joking, half-serious suggestion. "And what shall you do in Rouen?"

"Did you not say it was a land of opportunity?"

"Yes. For contractors. Not little veiled widows."

His words stung—because they were true. "There are _no_ lands of opportunity for little veiled widows." I laughed. "So I may as well be your housekeeper."

There was a long pause. "You are serious."

I had not started out so. But if there were no open prospects awaiting me, then I would be obliged to make them. Erik had said he would think the matter through, and I felt confident he might. But the idea had struck, and he wasn't offering any alternative. "Do you dislike the idea?"

Another, longer pause. "It's not a matter of liking or disliking the idea."

As the British say, I was in for a penny—I might as well be in for a pound. "You said it yourself, Erik. I am to disappear. Who will look for me there?"

"You may find Erik's company does not suit you," he said eventually. "And you may find that you have picked a more perilous road than the one that leads back to Persia."

"What, will I be flogged if I'm found unchaperoned in your company?" I looked around his parlor significantly. "Or worse?"

"Worse," he replied.

"Well, we did it once before anyway. That came off."

"We were fleeing for our lives," Erik said drily. "On the balance, I think that was worth the risk."

"And what are we doing now?" It was a philosophical question.

"What, indeed," he murmured.

There was another pause, and I took stock of the parlor once again. I looked up at the drapes again. There were so many kinds of horror, I decided. Some were obvious: say, a torture chamber at work. Or a kidnapped girl fighting to protect her beloved. Others were quieter, but no less terrible: a life spiraling hopelessly out of control. A life half lived, or lived all alone.

"Your eye keeps wandering up there," Erik said flatly, jerking his chin up to the hidden window.

"Yes," I said. I did not want to deny it. _This_ was the question that had tormented me, even when I was ready to excuse all of his other atrocious actions. "Erik, why did you build _that_ room in _this_ flat?"

He laughed. "Why, Mojgan! The whole of the flat is built _around_ that room. It is the centerpiece." He radiated forbidding silence, daring me to be satisfied with his response.

I had never been in the habit of pressing Erik for answers. Some things were better left unsaid. But I hated that mirrored room, and all it represented: I hated that there was a place where such a thing would be looked on as a novel addition to justice. I hated that there were people who had turned Erik's beautiful talents into something so ugly. And I hated the fact that I had almost died in such a contraption. Did I blame Erik? No, for I was _there_ and I _knew_ what it meant. And so I persisted. "But why?"

He stared up at the curtain, dropped like a funeral shroud from the ceiling. The rigid line of his shoulders fell and silence reigned. When he at last spoke, his voice was quiet. "Erik wanted sunlight in all the rooms. And I already knew how to build it."

As answers go, it was not satisfactory. But his eyes were earnest, and his words rung absolutely true, and I let the subject drop. Our evening had dragged on too long, as it was. With deliberate gallantry, Erik helped me wrap my cloak about me and we started on the strange journey back to the streets above.

When we reached the entrance on the Rue Scribe, I saw the yellow of the street lamps filtering in through the bars on the gate. What the lamps cast was weak and ghostly, a mere placeholder until the rays of the sun could again light the streets. I remembered the burning room of mirrors. I thought—yes, you might mistake that for sunlight. But it was sunlight stripped of its kindness, with only harsh heat remaining in its place.

Erik insisted on escorting me in the carriage. And though we maintained some little friendly conversation (mostly about the opera and not at all about Rouen,) he was noticeably more reserved. It was dawning on me that perhaps I was not welcomed on his new endeavor, not simply because I would be an inconvenience, but because traveling with me did not suit Erik. He also was trying to start his life over; did he really want a reminder of the past, of a terrible part of his past, accompanying him?

Just before we arrived at my house, I found a few words to stumble through to give Erik plenty of room to extricate himself. I started throwing out other possible scenarios, some quite wild— though, hypocrite that I am, I was also hoping that he would protest that he was perfectly satisfied with the current arrangement. As it was, however, he did not seem to be paying much heed to me at all. I was on the verge of simply rescinding my previous request altogether. Call it an uncommon attack of altruism.

Erik precipitated me, his voice back to the wry amusement that had colored the start of the evening. In fact, he sounded positively mischievous. "I do not believe the good Daroga will be in favor of our plan—" _our plan_ now, I had to notice—"but I may have something that will serve to reconcile him. As for you, I do not wish you to worry about anything. Your only concern shall be arranging your luggage: what you want for our little sojourn, and what you have as insurance. Have these ready by Friday, and I will attend to the rest."

The cogs of his great mind were clearly turning behind his flashing eyes, and by the time we arrived, it almost sounded as though _my_ harebrained idea had morphed into _his_ ingenious plan. I was relieved, and altruism was forgotten.

But then when I at last took to my bed, and sleep eluded me yet again, I had to question myself. The very knowledge that I mentioned to you earlier in this letter struck me: that many a woman had used Erik for her own ends, either deliberately or inadvertently, and that he never noticed until it was too late—until he had lost something of himself. And I had to wonder, _is that what I was doing?_

I had the unpleasant notion that the answer was _yes._ It is a terrible thing to hold up the mirror of one's conscience and realize how short we fall. I could not deceive myself into thinking that what I was doing was right by any standard. And, yet, I had no intention of changing course. That is an admission I take no pride in, though these many years have passed. I was in a desperate situation, and the fact that I spent that one night hating my very soul would not alter that. I salved my conscience by vowing, silently and fiercely, that I would somehow 'make it up' to Erik. That I would, as the medical men say, _do no harm._ And perhaps, if I turned all of my efforts into doing something _good_ for him, then I could somehow counterbalance my own selfishness.

History has at least given me that victory. I think. You may be the judge of that, later.

I am sorry to have written so much, and perhaps so badly. There is in fact _more_ I could write about that night, but I have worn myself out. Grief, even old grief, has a curious way of doing that to a body. Ask questions if you are curious; I will do my best to answer them in some other letter.

_Mojgan Khanum_


	47. My Lady Dwells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry. Work is still crazy and I've been putting in some overtime just now. I'll hopefully soon be able to make some replies to all the kind, wonderful reviews that have been left over the last few days. Thank you all so much!

"Have you read that old American writer, Poe?" Mifroid asked Nadir. "Because, occasionally, you put me in mind of Dupin."

The two men had met by chance at a café unknown to both of them in Palais-Bourbon. Nadir had tried without success to see Mojgan; Mifroid had been in the area on official business. Both had needed coffee. It was Mifroid who had invited Nadir to join him, and had spoken very generally of his business. That Nadir had been able to take those few vague sentences, combined with the known fact that the 7th arrondissement did not generally fall under Mifroid's purview, and connect them to a news article from a few days before was simply a matter of paying attention—not, as the Commissioner had just implied—a wild leap of logic. He merely shrugged and directed the conversation back to neutral topics.

They did not speak of the Chagnys. Official interest had ended and anything Nadir might have wanted to learn was unlikely to have landed on Mifroid's desk. Instead, they passed a pleasant hour discussing the concerns of the day, liberally sprinkled with anecdotes of Mifroid's children who were just adult enough to cause trouble and consternation. Evidently thinking such personal discussion warranted some kind of quid pro quo, Mifroid prompted Nadir with an airy. "Didn't you say you were visiting your cousin?"

"Yes," Nadir replied, in discouraging tones. There was a time when such a voice from the Daroga of Mazandaran would have frozen conversation— it had little apparent effect on a Parisian commissaire de police, who simply took the ensuing silence as opportunity to take snuff. Nadir relented somewhat. "My cousin is quite a bit younger than I am. Therefore, it is my right as the elder to despair over the younger generation."

"Of course," Mifroid said equitably. They were coming to the end of their second demitasses of espresso. "But it is also the right of the young to expect their elders to step gracefully to the side. Eventually."

Nadir eyed Mifroid, who was probably closer to Mojgan's age than his own, with resigned displeasure. "Perhaps."

"Besides, if your cousin is anything like you, I am sure he is a fine fellow."

Nadir laughed. "Not as such, but I thank you all the same." They parted with a handshake and the Commissioner promising (threatening?) to call on Nadir in a few days, and Nadir found himself alone in a cab. It gave him ample opportunity to stew.

The fact of the matter was, Nadir was extremely unsettled.

Erik had visited the night before, and his obvious pleasure with himself should have warned Nadir of trouble to come. He had been uneasy when Mojgan and Erik had made arrangements to meet alone: what had come of it had shocked him into silence. Erik informed Nadir grandly that Mojgan would travel with him to Rouen, there to lead a quiet, retired life away from society in general and international politics in particular. Nadir treated this flight of fancy with the scorn it deserved, and was not reconciled to the idea by the intelligence that it had originally come from Mojgan.

"But," Erik said, still in a magnanimous mood, " _I_ made the necessary arrangements."

The deliberate, carefully emphasized pronoun made Nadir think that that phrase had shifted from _Erik made the arrangements_ somewhere between mind and mouth. That certainly didn't help Erik's case, but gave Nadir a moment to pause. Ever since that day with the Vicomte de Chagny, that day Nadir had almost died at Erik's hands—intentionally or not—his previous cool temper had stayed too close to the surface. And what had it gotten him? Many arguments that went nowhere. Many headaches that had turned into heartaches. And no success, as such. It was an exercise in imagination and, perhaps, faith to ascribe good motives to Erik. But there was nothing to be gained from another round of accusations.

And so Nadir held his tongue and allowed Erik to lay out a plan that was equal parts clever and hopelessly naïve.

"I have one… favor to ask of you," Erik said. Nadir answered with a look of polite surprise—Erik did not ask for _favors._ "And that is to exercise whatever remains of your investigative abilities. You surely know some individuals connected with Reza and his ilk. It would be helpful to know if there is any thought of _intervention._ "

"And if there is?" Nadir asked bluntly. He personally thought the probability quite low, but did not say this to Erik.

"It will be dealt with."

"Ah." Nadir replied. "I _know_ how you _deal_ with things, Erik. Forgive me if I am not in a hurry to put some innocent's head in a noose."

Erik's eyes were positively owlish. "Oho, is that it, Daroga? I can see that you are still unconvinced. You will think I mean your precious Mojgan some harm, I suppose. Well, mark me well, Daroga—I _don't_. And what's more, she knows it. I do this because it is what she wants."

"I believe you," Nadir said very slowly. "And so my objections to this scheme do not lie chiefly with _you._ " It was true enough. However, he was finding it very difficult to put to words just what his objections _were._ They seemed to involve words that had very little to do with his life any more: propriety, perhaps? Morality? Modesty? And all of those words were centered, not on Erik, but on Mojgan. Nadir also knew that they were concerns Erik would not properly understand, that he would not heed. But Nadir knew he could not talk circles around Erik, could not bring him around to his way of thinking through smooth words and trickery. His only hope was to level with him, as one man might to another man, and _hope_ he might understand. "Grief does peculiar things to a person. Mojgan is putting herself in needless danger—and, _no_ , Erik, this is not about you." Begrudgingly, he added, "indeed, I am the only other man I would… trust… more to behave _decently_ towards her. Nor do I believe there will be assassins waiting in the shadows for her! But unmarried women do not go gallivanting off with any man— _however trustworthy_ —if they hope to retain their good character. It is no different here in France than home in Persia, in that regard."

The golden owl eyes stared back at him. They were calculating. "So?"

Ah, so an out and out argument was not a prerequisite to a blinding headache. "What else is there to say? You say your motives are good: fine. Will you still let Mojgan ruin herself?"

The eyes remained fixed, but the head tilted. "I am not _so_ much of a booby, Daroga. I told you I undertook making the _necessary_ arrangements. I wrote to the agent dealing my lodgings in Rouen, and requested a chateau with two wings and caretakers."

"And so you intend to… _maintain_ her?"

"Erik does not care for your tone," came the tart reply. "Yes, the house will be mine. The table will be mine. But she is managing quite well on her own. This last husband left something accessible for her maintenance abroad. Not much, but he was not a complete fool and did foresee she might need some ready money in Europe if he was… _unavailable._ Moving that money is another matter, but it is being dealt with. Alas, the _fortune_ is probably lost. Can't get to the first husband's money from here; and the bulk of the last one's is going to some nephew who will carry on the family name. All will be well. You will see."

The impasse remained, and Nadir could only shake his head. "And what of you, Erik? What good do _you_ gain from this chivalrous impulse, if that is indeed what it is?"

Erik fidgeted under Nadir's steady gaze. " _I,_ " he said, standing with great dignity, "will not be alone."

No, there was no comfort to be found in Erik's words. He had hopes that Mojgan could have been brought to her senses, but his visit to her house in Palais-Bourbon had only yielded a scrawled note delivered by her maid. _Will send word soon._

Was it any wonder that he had let himself be distracted by coffee and the conversation for the hours to follow? A man could only take so much.

And, at the heart of the matter, what business did Nadir really have in Mojgan's affairs? He cared, to be sure. But she had lived this long without Nadir's protection or interference. If it wasn't for the unusual life she had carved out for herself, Nadir would have never even laid eyes on her again. Oh, he knew it could be argued that she had merely traveled in the wake of her husband the Great Man, but Nadir knew better. He knew that Mojgan was never a truly passive player in her life. In some roundabout way, she was in Paris because she wanted to be. And she would stay—because she wanted to.

Nadir could not blame her. He _liked_ his life in Paris.

The months after leaving Mazandaran had been a rough and ready time, desperately trying to start a search that Nadir had no inclination to _end._ The road to France had been twisted and long, littered with poky inns and barren rooms. When they had at last arrived, it had been a relief to settle in a place for more than a few months. They had taken the lodgings on the Rue de Rivoli, and he had been pleased enough with them. Darius may have thought them a bit beneath _the Daroga's_ dignity, but Nadir was no longer _the Daroga_ , even if many still called him that. He supposed he could compare his comfortably shabby apartment to his lost home, where even the old things had been well-cared for and well-maintained so as to make the word _antique_ more appropriate than _old,_ and find ample cause for dissatisfaction. To think, he had once employed a steward, a cook, a groom, and handful of lower servants _besides_ Darius.

But besides a desire that Darius could occasionally take a longer break from his responsibilities (the best Nadir could do was the occasional meal out, or surreptitiously dusting when Darius was running errands,) Nadir was content with his reduced circumstances.

If he could honestly look at his life and say, _yes, I am content with my choices and where they have led me_ —how could he doubt that Mojgan would be able to do the same? If danger were to come—dishonor—disgrace—well, what was new in that? Nadir knew what evil looked like. He knew what it looked like in dirty alleyways and bloodied gutters. He knew what it looked like in palace rooms, hung with finest silks, being discussed over tea. That was not the life Mojgan had made for herself, even if she had inexplicably chosen Erik as her companion for this new adventure. Or perhaps it wasn't so very unexplainable.

There had been a time when Nadir had thought a friendship with Mojgan might do Erik some good. That had been long ago and far away, with Mojgan simply being a better woman than the one Erik worshipped, virtuous enough to keep him at a distance, kind enough to perhaps prod him to better behavior. When had Nadir first thought that? Ah, that picnic in Tehran— truly a world away. It hadn't occurred to him that such a friendship would, by definition, need to go both ways. Erik had been there when Mojgan needed to run the first time. Was it any wonder that she had turned to him this second time?

His brain refused to reason on the subject any longer. All Nadir knew for certain was that he cared about the woman, and he was worried. But, like any good investigator, he knew when he had reached a dead end. He left the matter alone and went on with his day.

As evening came, he gave thought to Erik's request. No, he did not like what they were scheming. But what he had been asked to do was small and simple, and so on went the evening clothes (new as of a mere few months ago) and he went to the lounge.

He had been there once since finding Erik alive, for checkers and gossip about Mojgan's husband. He had not been disappointed, but nor had he felt a burning desire to return. But he knew who he could count on to be there.

A few greetings were exchanged between Nadir and some of the regulars, but he kept the general trend of his progress towards the corner Masood usually claimed. Indeed, the aide was to be found there and hailed Nadir when he noticed him.

"Haven't seen you since the funeral," he commented. "Come have coffee with me."

Nadir demurred, as if the invitation had been unexpected and he did not want to intrude. Nadir may have been far from home, but he was still Persian and knew how to _taarof_ with the best of them. Masood offered again and Nadir eventually took up a seat.

The younger man looked very much at his leisure. He tossed a bedraggled newspaper across to Nadir. It took his eye a moment to adjust to the clean typeset was showing him Persian, instead of the expected French. The date was March—not too far gone, then.

"Fresh from the capital. They're trying to compete with the expatriate papers," Masood said. "Asking for contributions from their readers and trying to create a free-sounding forum."

If Nadir had still been in the Shah's service, he would not have laughed. But with five thousand kilometers between Paris and Tehran, he allowed himself a brief chuckle. "And you have reason to doubt it?"

 _Despite_ his official capacity, Masood laughed with much more force than Nadir. "No? Why? Because it's owned by the Minister of Publication?"

"And what makes you think the Parisian press has any more freedom?" Nadir asked, eyebrows raised high.

"They are a republic?" Masood offered with a shrug. "No. No, that way lays madness. As is often the case with politics, as you well know."

"A reason why I am grateful to be so far removed from them now," Nadir commented. Coffee was served, and he focused on admiring the little cobalt and gilt demitasse with its portrait of the Shah on the side. It seemed to be a more recent rendering than Nadir had seen, but the Shah looked remarkably… the same. What was it about royalty that they seemed to freeze so? Some uncanny side effect of having one's likeness on so many portraits and so many coins? Now, there was a thought that did not befit the logical inspector.

"In truth, I would not care—if I were the Minister of Publication," Masood said. Nadir wondered if he was intending to make a career out of radical honesty. It would certainly be a novelty. Or, more likely, a nine days' wonder. "So, Daroga, what news with you?"

This time, Nadir cut to the point. "My cousin."

"Ah, yes," Masood's voice was very wry. "Your cousin. How is it that you managed to keep your illustrious relatives concealed for so long?"

Nadir gestured with his coffee cup in one hand and saucer in the other. "They weren't concealed. Merely… removed." It wasn't something one thought of, in one's little flat in Paris, but a different sort of man would have made frequent, proud mention of his ancestry. Nadir had always thought that he needed to stand on his own. And yet… He took a sip and then matched Masood's dry tone. "Or, did you think the previous Shahs were not given over to nepotism? I assure you, if my father hadn't been somebody, I wouldn't have been either. And so it follows, _some_ of my cousins are interesting."

"Perhaps," Masood allowed. "Don't mistake me: I like Mojgan Khanum well enough. Sophie thinks she's charming. But she's not quite the thing, is she? And you have to admit, it is quite a _coincidence_ that it is your cousin who has come and given us so much trouble."

Now Nadir really did laugh. "Really, if you knew everyone involved, it's not surprising in the least."

"Reza was a rare one, to be sure," he said by way of agreement. "And if he was still alive, we wouldn't be talking about the Khanum at all, would we?"

Nadir decided to turn Masood's given approach around on him. A straightforward question. "Does the embassy mean to make trouble for Mojgan?"

"You mean, does Mojgan mean to make trouble for the embassy?" Masood shot back. "Officially, I don't believe we have anything to say about her beyond trying to arrange passage home to a countrywoman. Unofficially—" his eyes became sharp, and shifted towards Nadir with something like ruthlessness lurking in them—"I don't think anyone gives two figs. If this was Constantinople, she could probably just be absorbed into the local community. But why does she want to stay in Paris?"

"For the ateliers," Nadir quipped. "But in all seriousness, I do not think she cares about Paris one way or the other. Quiet is the word she uses to describe the life she wants."

"Well, then, who can object to a quiet and modest life?" The casualness Masood said this with was far from genuine. "Didn't Reza say she was from Ghazvin? She isn't a Babi, is she?"

"Ah, no. She doesn't hold any radical ideas, religious or political." Except perhaps that desire to strike out on her own, Nadir added silently. But did that perhaps have more to do with the human condition than any societal expectations? He quirked a smile at Masood. "Not a poet, either, if you're really concerned."

"I'm not concerned," he said. "It's not my affair."

"Whose affair is it?" Nadir asked.

"Yours, by the sound of it. And it is true: I do not know of anyone who will care if one woman lives some quiet, retired life. But politics is _fickle_. Sometimes _not_ being thought of _at all_ is as damaging as being thought of _too much._ "

Nadir would need to be a fool to miss the warning in those words. But like so many warnings he had received over the course of his life, it was irritatingly vague. Where was Masood's candor now? They slipped slowly into other conversation and Nadir allowed himself to believe he was an ordinary man enjoying a chat with an old acquaintance.

It was a long while before Nadir could rest that night, and even longer before he felt like sleep would come. Too much coffee, he decided. Afternoon and evening, and at his age!

For the first time in many years, he found himself thinking of the woman who had been his wife. Their time together had been short, and she was dead now these forty years. But he could not shake the idea that she would have been a blessing to have around just now. Perhaps there were things she could have said that would have touched Mojgan's heart. Perhaps she would have had words to reassure Nadir. Or perhaps she would have simply complained that she had been taken out of a royal harem to end her days in little Parisian flat. He really didn't know.

Eventually he retired, and fell asleep trying to remember what her name had been.

* * *

Erik said he would come again Friday evening. Friday evening turned to Friday night, and Nadir involved himself with a book. Even Darius eventually ran out of things to do, and sat scratching in a notebook. After all these years, Nadir still did not know what he put down on the pages, though he currently suspected love poems.

Eventually, he came. There was a thump outside the door, and then the two doomsday raps that usually served as Erik's knock. Darius opened the door in time for Nadir to see Erik tipping some lackey and then gesturing to a large steamer truck.

"Don't stand there—let me in," Erik said. "Give me a hand, Darius. That woman must pack bricks in her luggage."

"What's this?" Nadir asked, wandering closer to the door.

"It's what Mojgan doesn't wish to take to Rouen, but does not wish to leave behind. I did not ask for specifics."

"Ah, and we are to stand in place of her storerooms?"

" _If_ you please," Erik said, in a tone that indicated that there was no other option.

Nadir sighed. "Put it wherever Darius tells you to. And then a word, Erik."

They disappeared into the hallways that led to the kitchen, and Nadir made himself comfortable.

"I know the word you want, Daroga!" Erik called from down the hall. "Same, meddlesome word as always! _Erik, don't!"_

Nadir sighed and then with some irony said, "Erik, don't assume."

The tilt of Erik's head when he returned to the sitting room indicated that he was not amused.

"Oh, sit down, you hellion," Nadir grumbled. "I did as you asked!"

The posture changed almost at once, and Erik looked very pleased and at his ease on Nadir's settee. "And?"

"As I said, no assassins lurking in the shadows."

"A pity," the words seemed to slip out of Erik without a thought, for he paused and then nodded slowly. "No, that is for the best. It will be safe enough."

"I suppose." Nadir stared at Erik for a long while. "Erik. I am… _choosing_ to believe that you are a man capable of doing better, and that you will. Will you?"

Erik stood and gave his hat vicious shake. "I am that which I am, Daroga. I cannot change the past. What comes next? Who is to say? But if it is any comfort, I do not _delight_ in being a disappointment."

Nadir also stood, and with the slow movements one might use around a frightened animal, extended his hand. "It is well, Erik."

"Is it?" Erik simply stared at the offered handshake, his voice a whisper. "Ah, before I forget. She wanted to send this along." He placed a note in Nadir's outstretched hand, and remained standing.

As expected, it was from Mojgan, and after a moment's hesitation, Nadir opened it and read.

_Dear Nadir,_

_Thank you for putting up with my whims. I never struck you as a whimsical woman before, did I? I leave tomorrow, and though I do not know every particular, I am content that our plan is sound. Certain members of my house staff are aware of my departure, so there will be no hue and cry raised. A letter will be delivered to Reza's old staff Monday morning. I have not mentioned you in it, so if it is possible, you may be forgotten as a source of information. But if you are applied to, I have full confidence in your ability to reply well, though I loathe putting you in such a position. I hope to write to you once we are settled. Please have no concerns over me. Thank you for being ever my friend and good cousin._

_Mojgan Khanum_

Nadir glanced back at Erik. "It is for the best Feridoon kept her as away from court as he did. I don't think she could intrigue well if she wanted to." He folded the note and stuck it in the pocket of his dressing gown.

"No," Erik agreed slowly, "she seems incurably truthful." After a moment, he added, "After a fashion. Do you have a reply for her?"

"Just to send my affection," Nadir said. "I hope all goes well with you, Erik."

"As do I," he said. After a beat, Erik extended his own hand. It was cold and bony, by Nadir could still feel that old hidden power in it. Here was a man who could flip him to the floor in an instant, who could strangle a thug with nothing more than a wire—who could build palaces and summon the angels with the keys and strings of any instrument. _May your hands do good work,_ Nadir said silently, as fervently as a prayer. _May you at last be satisfied with_ good _works._

Erik took his leave and Nadir was at last able to ready himself for bed. He slipped the note into his book and left it on his night stand. He turned off the kerosene lamp in his room and sat in the darkness for a long while.

He heard Darius lock the doors and then retreat to his own room. He heard their closest neighbor drop what sounded like a bottle on the floor. Through the window he had propped open, he could make out the carriages rolling down past the Tuileries. Distant laugher came from across the street. He could almost swear he could hear the sound of applause as the curtain dropped at the Garnier for the night.

His wife had been named Afsaneh. He allowed himself to miss her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no way intelligent, polished Nadir did not make friends in Paris. I'm not sure he had much in common with the theater folk he seemed to spend the most time around while trying to keep tabs on Erik, but still. I will die on this hill.  
> Also, I have a sad feeling that my desire to see the Daroga and Darius as an expatriated-Persian Holmes and Watson* will go unfulfilled. File it away with my Horatio Hornblower-style Captain Raoul series that never managed to be written.
> 
> *with Mifroid as Lestrade, Jammes and the corps de ballet filling in for the Baker Street Irregulars, and some impossibly chic Parisienne jewel thief as The Woman. …and Erik as Moriarty?


	48. Thou Holdest Me

The tram came to its stop in Bapeaume-lès-Rouen and disgorged its collection of city-working passengers into suburbia.

Erik was the first one off. Over the past six weeks, it had become his routine to claim the front seat of the tram—so much so that one of the drivers informed him that it was occasionally left empty on the off chance Erik would need it—for the very purpose of this quick escape. Thereafter, he would go around the station to the stables, claim a job horse, and strike out the few miles to his rented chateau. Somewhere between the station and the forestry path he took a shortcut through, he would start to breathe again.

That was not to say that Erik disliked his work. Garnier had dealt him an extremely good turn in securing this contract with the city of Rouen. The building itself was little to speak of: a squat, rectangular structure, with stolid squared-off windows and the sort of exterior cornicing and moldings as might be at home on a bank. Erik's suggestion to various members of the planning committee that they tear down what had already been built and redo the whole structure in the style of the famous cathedral was met with polite laughter. His second suggestion that it be built as an enlarged version of the charming half-timbered houses that littered Rouen was met with… slightly less laughter. But no matter—Erik shrugged and got on with his work. He knew how to build ordinary buildings, even if it struck him as such a _waste._

People were wasteful, in general, he thought. Oh, who cared about money? You might as well waste money, so long as there was enough of it to waste. But more tangible resources like fine marble, or gold, art—time, too, and talent? It was quite criminal how people squandered those. Erik could see the hypocrisy of taking a paycheck for something that seemed to waste those very things in his life. But he valued what came with it: the quiet chateau with its disinterested caretakers, the project to occupy his time with, the freedom to travel from point a to point be with a perfectly good reason and no one to stop him.

He was struck, suddenly, with the thought that perhaps _all_ people felt the same. Was it, in fact, not wastefulness but instead a profoundly mercenary spirit that moved people to guard their ordinary routines at any cost? It was almost too wild of an idea, and so Erik discarded it.

It was sunset as he rode up the gravel path to the ancient house. He took the horse to the little stables on the grounds, and untacked her before letting the boy the house employed see to her feeding and grooming. It was all in the contract he had drawn up with the station owner. Madame Bidault greeted him in the foyer and took his coat. She was one of those wiry, sprightly older women who seemed to have limitless energy for household minutiae. Her husband, on the other hand, took care of the grounds with slow, impassive serenity. The isolated ways of Erik and Mojgan suited them just fine, and if they had any questions as to the arrangement, these were left unspoken.

Instead of heading to the west—his wing—Erik gestured to the east. "Is Madame in?"

"In the garden room," Mother Bidault said, "a tray for supper, Monsieur?"

"Perhaps later," he replied and set off.

It had not been Erik's intention, when he took the house with Mojgan in mind, to visit her wing frequently. He seldom saw her in the morning: she was usually still abed by the time he had been at work for several hours. But over the weeks, it had become common for him to drop in upon returning home, and increasingly common for him to stay with her for a few hours before wandering off to indulge his own interests. They would talk of light things—the things they did and the people they met. Erik could have her in stitches by repeating the conversations between his master mason (a laconic, somewhat rustic Lillois fellow) and Sauvageot's assistant (a bespectacled young man with pretentions to both fashion and refinement.) Mojgan would show him the flowers she meant to press and the sketches she took as a way to explain her rambling walks. Erik thought her best skill with a pencil lay with the rigid lines and clear mathematics of technical drawings— _she_ would have likely made a good architect, in a different world—but regardless of that he had to admit that she had a charming way of capturing the particular mischievousness of squirrels. Occasionally, Erik would play his lyre-guitar in her parlor. The piano was in Erik's west wing. Mojgan had never ventured there, but there was some talk of her resuming her practice. _Lessons_ were not something Erik felt up to, even if she had dropped the occasional hint.

Overall, it had been a pleasant enough arrangement and Erik was loathed to throw a wrench in it. But he had been anxious for hours now, and so steeled himself for an unpleasant conversation. But when he entered the garden room, with its large windows still uncovered and overlooking the now deeply shadowed hedges and roses, he thought he might put it off a little while longer. It was a comfortable, informal parlor. Mojgan was busy at a little desk pushed up against the wall opposite the fireplace, but she twisted around when she heard Erik enter.

"Good evening, Erik," she greeted, "How was your day?"

Like so many other evenings before, Erik drifted over to the bookcase and selected a worn volume. If he was to stay here much longer, they would need to expand the library. "A disaster. The fabric warehouse dropped off the goods for the upholstery— _the_ _upholstery_. Thousands of yards of red velvet before the plastering is completed."

Mojgan gave a sympathetic chuckle. "Oh, dear. That shouldn't have fallen to you to sort, though, should it have?"

" _Should_ and _did_ are very different matters," Erik sighed. This was a story with several scathing mimicries involved, and by the time he was finished, he was laughing along with Mojgan. "Somehow I think your day was less dramatic."

"Certainly less velvet and falling roof beams," she said. She held up the paper on her desk. "I'm trying to write a letter to Nadir."

"Trying?"

"I'm a terrible correspondent," Mojgan admitted. "I'm fond of my friends, but I've never been able to keep up on letters. But I feel like I should try for Nadir."

"He will understand if you don't."

"I know. But he was so concerned before we left, and his last letter still sounded anxious. I feel like I ought to at least try to assure him that all is well."

"Oh, he knows," Erik commented. At Mojgan's inquisitive look, he confessed, "I fear senility is setting in with the old Daroga. Somewhere in the last few years, he has started to believe that all he needs to do in order to blend in is switch out his astrakhan for a bowler hat. This is not strictly true. A tall, dark fellow with those greying whiskers is still easy to spot."

"Do you mean to tell me?—"

"That he followed us here? Yes, of course. I expected it from the start. But he left satisfied enough." It had actually brought Erik great amusement to see the Daroga walking an ever-shrinking perimeter about the construction site, speaking with some of the workers, and lingering in local cafes. Mojgan, however, did not seem amused. "You shouldn't be insulted, my dear. If anyone ought to be, it is me."

"I'm insulted he didn't stay for dinner," Mojgan shot back. "When was this?"

"A week or so ago? I know I should have told you, but the plumbing—"

"Yes, the plumbing. You can't seem to get away from sewers, can you?" She bent over her page again. "Well. I'll still write to him. I want him to know that I care, even if I have a few _issues_ to take up with him. And at least I can write to him in Persian. I don't know what it would take for me to write more than a few lines in French."

"Practice."

She snorted. "I don't know if I care about _anyone_ enough for that much practice." After a pause, she asked. "Do you want me to say hello for you?"

Erik made a noncommittal sound.

"I will, then," she said. "Do you want me to put in any news about the opera house?"

Erik opened his book at last. "Do _you_ want to bother writing about the opera house?"

She thought about this. "I might as well. I already started a second page and might as well fill it. Maybe not the upholstery fiasco, but I'll tell him about Monsieur Sauvageot's visit yesterday."

Erik acquiesced, if for no other reason than it was an anecdote that cast him in fairly decent light. He thought he had handled the intransigent principal architect of the opera quite well—the last time such a prima donna had crossed his path, his adversary had ended up with a frog in her throat. So to speak.

Before returning to her letter, Mojgan pointedly asked Erik if he had eaten, and when he vacillated on whether it had been breakfast or lunch that he had last had, rang for Mother Bidault to bring that tray of supper up. They spent awhile in companionable silence, Mojgan at her letter and Erik with Stendhal. He moved to the sofa that had its back to her desk, and when the food was brought in and the old woman departed again, he felt at ease enough to slip off his mask. He knew Mojgan would not get up from her spot until he was finished.

With some surprise, he noted that the centerpiece of supper was a wedge of crustless quiche, made very dark green from a multitude of herbs. "I would not have thought kookoo-e sabzi was in Cook's repertoire," he said, poking the distantly familiar meal with his fork.

Mojgan laughed. "Oh, I scandalized the whole household by going into the kitchen and actually _doing_ something. I think my gentility has been called into question."

"Likely," Erik said, "a woman who can afford a cook is not a woman who then spends time in a kitchen."

"Nonsense," Mojgan replied. "Especially when I am a better cook then the hired woman."

Well, there was no denying that. He was quick to finish his eggs and the salad on the side. "Careful, or you'll find yourself servantless and be obliged to get up before dawn to light the ovens."

"Oh, no danger of that. I was forgiven for cooking after I _fed_ the staff."

Erik could smell the sealing wax Mojgan held up to a flame, and took a last sip of wine before replacing the mask. "Finished? I'll post it tomorrow, if you'd like."

"Thank you," she stood and stretched, and Erik had to wonder just how long she had been trying to write that letter. She had her own book to pick up, and so took up an arm chair close by. It had taken him quite a while to notice that she stuck quite firmly to volumes of short stories, or perhaps poetry. Eventually, he was able to pry it from her that it was a struggle to read through an entire novel in French. On a whim, he purchased a subscription to _Magasin d'éducation et de recreation_ , and when it came would read the latest installment of _Godfrey Morgan_ to her. Thank God she was a sensible woman, and did not fly into a fit simply because it was a novel being serialized in a children's periodical.

He would miss reading with her, he realized, if this conversation went the way he thought it must. But there was nothing for it.

"By the bye," he said, dropping into the Persian they were using less and less as the days passed, "apparently, you are now my wife."

There were no immediate protests or recriminations. The eyebrows rose up thoughtfully. "Indeed?" she returned to her book, "Well, I told you that if I married again, it would be to a fellow I liked first."

"What, no objections?" he said. He kept his voice teasing, but the panic that had been steadily rising since late that afternoon remained. "I should have you know that I summarily declined a dinner invitation on our behalf. I am a tyrant."

"It's probably for the best," she said, with a note of regret in her voice. "Cook put out pork cutlets with breakfast today, and I just can't bring myself to eat it. It would be much more difficult to avoid something like that at someone else's house."

She flipped a page. Erik stared at her. "How is it," he demanded, "that you are not upset?"

"About?"

"They think you're married to me!"

She paused. "Well, I was going to say that it probably serves very well that people believe that, Erik. But perhaps you should tell me how this all came about in the first place? And who are _they?_ "

He gestured widely, taking in the better part of the world. He told her of the fellow, one of the officers of the city who he often saw in the course of business, oh-so-casually inviting Erik _and his wife_ to an evening of supper and cards. _Just a small party,_ the man had said, _nothing terribly formal._ Erik was quick on his feet, and wriggled his way out of the situation without committing to anything. He let it drop that she, without being specific as to who _she_ was, needed much rest and repose, and even quiet suppers might be too much for _her._ He could have said, they would have been too much for _him_ , which was no stretch of the truth.

"Perhaps it was a general invitation," Mojgan pointed out. "An assumption."

" _That_ ," Erik said with ponderous emphasis, "is not an assumption that is generally made about me." He felt the need to match Mojgan's unconcerned perusal of her book and so snapped his back open. "Also, someone saw when you _forced_ me to meet you at the market on Tuesday."

"We needed curtains," she said calmly. "And I would have never seen that Brussels lace on the top shelf if you hadn't been there." After a moment, she added, "and you are _picky._ "

"Won't you be serious? This must be fixed."

Mojgan did straighten up at Erik's request, and set aside her book. "What would you have me do? Go into town and flirt with every man I come across? That wouldn't serve at all." She offered a crooked smile. "I was never much of a flirt to begin with, and based on this conversation, I feel that I've lost my touch entirely." Erik stared at her. Or perhaps _glared_ , and she sighed. "Really, Erik, this might serve very well. I am sorry to put you to the trouble of turning down invitations, but it sounds like you did that just fine. And unless you were planning on wooing the magistrate's daughter, I don't see what trouble it causes."

It really was a glare now, Erik knew. "You know very well Erik has no such intention. My concern is for _you._ "

Something in Erik's words must have struck a chord with Mojgan, for she leaned forward slightly. She extended a hand, though did not go so far as to touch Erik. She merely let it rest on the arm of his settee. "Indeed, Erik, I don't want you to worry about it. _I_ am not concerned. I am not offended. If you dislike it, then you must do what you feel is right. But I am content to let the misimpression stand."

Erik mulled this over for a long while. No, this was _not_ how he expected this conversation to go. But he could not say he liked it much better. "Very well." They returned to their respective books.

Erik did not linger long that evening. He offered a scrupulously polite goodnight, and then took himself to the west wing.

A storm cloud seemed to hang over him. He had been prepared for shock, for horror, for Mojgan to shudder and say, _How could anyone imagine such a nightmare!_ He had not foreseen her humorous acceptance. Yes, he could see her point—Nadir had been concerned about her good name, after all, and apparently her name was safe as the perfectly convenable wife of… of… a local professional?

And really, wasn't that what Erik had longed for, for so long? To live as other men did? Yet, every time that dream had been within reach, it melted away. As much as that always stung, it did not surprise him. All dreams melt away with the come of morning. Did they not?

These past weeks may as well have been a waking dream, by that measure: Erik woke, went to his ordinary job, returned to his ordinary house, and visited with this ordinary woman and spoke of ordinary things. It was not a bad life. And yet, it was not quite what he had ever imagined.

He came to his bed chambers. He undressed, leaving the day's clothes for Mother Bidault to collect and clean later on. It was an agreeable luxury to once again have someone else attend to the laundry. Another little detail of ordinary life Erik's imagination had left out in recent years. He washed off the dust and sweat inherent to have spent the day around construction, and put on a nightshirt and dressing gown. Earlier on in the day, he had thought to spend the evening looking over certain plans and sketches for the interior of the opera house, but now bypassed the desk in favor of the piano.

He could play Gounod once again without falling into sullen recollections of Christine. He could play Mozart. And sometimes, his shy new friend would come out to play as well. Since those evenings atop Mount Gros, he only had periodic glimmers of her—indeed, it was only very recently that he had come to think of the compositions as _her_. She was subtle where Don Juan had been bombastic; she restated herself with ever-increasing intricacy and delicacy, whereas the Don found his power in his reliable ostinatos.

She did not like Erik's mood tonight, but instead of slipping away as she usually did, she stayed and let him vent his frustrations in the golden rises and silvered falls of her scales. _Ossia,_ she whispered, _not obbligato._

He still did not know what to call her.

His fingers stilled over the keys and he heard a quiet knock at the door of the parlor. "Come in, Mojgan," he said.

She cracked open the door and slipped in. She was still dressed for the day, though Erik realized it had been several hours. Her hair, however—freed from the braided coronet she generally wore, it hung almost to the piano bench as she took a seat near him. She looked… well, Erik did not know what that look was.

"I didn't mean to be flippant," she murmured. How was it they found themselves so often speaking so softly? There had not been many soft voices in Erik's life. "I did not realize how… bothered you were by Monsieur Clarins' mistake. I am sorry."

Erik did not know where to look. Her earnest face? Her hair, like the black night sky falling? He turned back to looking at the piano. "It is nothing. I am not bothered."

"You _were,_ " she said.

"And you were not." He could see her shake her head out of the corner of his eye. His fingers followed his eyes, and returned to the keys. A few soft notes came. "We have lived very different lives." This time, it was a nod. "I do not know how you can be happy… like this."

"Like what?"

He shrugged, and the music turned meditative. Melancholy. He could feel her eyes following his hands. "To be here, in this obscure little house, with no one but me for company—when once you were surrounded by glittering luxury, and a myriad entertainments, and all the beauty that should be in life."

"Those are not things that make for happiness, as well you know," she said after moment. She reached out and touched a key, striking a soft, low note that proved a well-weighted counterpoint to the melody taking shape under Erik's fingers. "To speak the truth, I am not sure if I am a creature made for happiness. I don't know if I have the soul for it. But I am more content here than I have been at any time these last twenty years. But my contentment cannot come at the price of your own peace, Erik." Erik dropped his hands to his lap, and now merely listened as she idly picked out the simplest notes of what he had just been playing—not quite perfectly, but the spirit was there as a stripped-down echo. "I have been a wife more than once. It did not surprise me to be thought of as such. But I am not the wife _you_ have thought of—am I? This place must be a strange reflection of the life you thought you would have had with _her._ "

Now, there was silence.

There was only one _her_ she could be referring to. Erik paused and looked around the room. It bore more marks of himself that Mojgan's snug parlor—papers stacked on various surfaces, small samples of building finishes, the lyre-guitar left out and the violin resting in its case. It was not the little house by the church off the Brittany Express. It was not the house he had imagined bringing his-wife-Christine to.

But, as Erik had found in recent days, his marvelous imagination had come up short on many things. Life was not an opera: if there were soaring arias or rousing choruses, these were few. Most days were merely underscored. But could he really say _merely_? These subtle days, drawn in their soft colors, may have lacked the high drama he loved on stage. His life had been a shadowland of darkness, interspersed with flashes of blinding light—like Christine, a thunderbolt of song accompanied by lightening cutting across a black sky. The few bright moments did not seem to outweigh the darkness, by far.

Had that lightning and thunder instead turned into this dark cloud over Erik? Was it Christine's face that had flashed into his mind with Etienne Clarins' invitation? …was it the glory of the Garnier that exasperated Erik when he looked at his new little bank of an opera house? Was it Don Juan that sometimes frightened away his delicate successor?

…perhaps.

However.

However, Erik could change the tune the better fit the setting.

He willed all the sincerity he felt into his voice. "Don't trouble yourself, Mojgan. As far as almost-wives go, you are by far the… nicest I've ever had."

It was an insipid word, he supposed, but she understood him. _Niceness_ was a rare thing in life, and precious for its rarity. She grinned, for just a fleeting instant, and he wondered if she was not deceiving herself by saying she was not a creature made for happiness.

"And you are quite the most _interesting_ almost-husband," she replied. And just as a different woman might have mistaken _nice_ as tepid praise, a different man might have been insulted to be _interesting._ But he also understood her, and knew that the interest, the concern, was genuine. She stood and held out a hand, which Erik squeezed briefly and released. "Thank you for declining the invitation. No, I don't feel equal to company at all."

"Certainly," Erik matched her playful tone, "And I don't expect you will until September 30th."

"September? And why shall I make this sudden recovery in September?"

"The inauguration of the Rouen Opera House's stage, of course," he said. "It's to be Meyerbeer, which is to be lamented, but I am still sure you will rally to see it."

She nodded seriously, "yes, indeed. I feel confident that recovery from this obscure nervous disorder will come in just about four and a half months. And who is to say that a relapse will not occur after being overset by the opera?"

Erik shrugged. "Well. Who can say what comes after September? _I_ don't know."

He could detect that her mock-seriousness hardened a little into real reflection. "I suppose you're right. The project will end, and then..." her smile returned. "Well, that's for another day, isn't it? Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Mojgan."

The door shut quietly behind her. He found the most recent sheet of manuscript paper he had been working on, something quite similar to what he had just played. On the last stave, he made a small adjustment, and underneath it noted _ppp._

 _Pianississimo_ _._ Very, very soft.


	49. Enchained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I tried. I tried cutting this into two chapters. It didn't work. I tried writing a new bridge between the two halves. It didn't work. But- here you go. Think one probably deserves some kind of trigger warning for discussion of suicide, but, you know, ERIK.

There had been an incident with the mask.

If asked, Erik could not have relayed the specifics of said incident. Someone had bumped into him. He had stumbled. Someone else had reached out to steady him. And somehow, through some cruel machination of fate, his usually perfectly secure mask ended up on the ground, its empty eyes staring up at him in mockery.

Then, he was on a horse. (A part of his mind supplied commentary: _it's not in the contract to borrow a horse from the main Rouen station.)_ He rode recklessly through the city and would have torn through the forest if the rawboned creature could have been compelled to move any faster than its own placid pace. Still he kicked up gravel when he at last came to the chateau and dismounted. There was some commotion outside: the caretaker was standing with the gig ready, and the front doors were thrown wide open. Erik left his horse behind (someone would take of it) and took the front steps two at a time. He almost slammed into the figure exiting the house.

"Erik! Thank God!" she said. "A messenger came from your foreman and said you had taken ill. Are you all right?"

He felt something like a hot brand on his wrist and shook it off. It came back again after a moment, slightly less searing.

"Erik?"

He looked down and realized it was just a hand resting over his own, fingers lying on his skin just at the edge of his shirt cuffs. "Erik," the voice attached to the hand was low and soothing, but he could detect a note of strain in it, like a singer just reaching outside of their range. He looked up at her, strangely out of focus.

 _Poor princess in the tower,_ he thought, freeing himself from her grasp again. _Why did she come to live with the dragon?_

She had stopped him almost in midstride, and he just barely resisted the impulse to push her to the side. But he mustn't do that, he thought. Princesses could be fragile things, and one didn't push them. But one could command them. His voice echoed harshly in his own ears. " _Get—out—of my way."_ What language was that, anyway? One that she understood, at least, for she did not hesitate to step aside to allow him into the chateau.

He veered right, leaving her standing in the foyer, and slammed closed all the doors leading into his own rooms. But they weren't really his rooms, were they? He paid someone to let him live in this house that wasn't his, that he hadn't built, so he could go build someone else's designs, and—it—was—maddening.

Or was it just the mask that made him mad? Was he a madman in a mask, or did it work the other was around? He did not know and did not care.

He locked the doors that could be locked, threw the accursed object clear across the room. Something at the other end broke, but he did not care. He sat and attacked the piano. The piano, however, was fighting back.

Why would nothing come from the keys? Oh, sounds. Sounds that somehow innately conformed to the basic principles of music, but still the notes escaped him. He chased them for what seemed like hours; seemed like eternity. There was such pain in his hands, such pain in his heart—and yet, the music mocked him as the mask had. In despair, he looked up, and the words seemed to form in front of him—oversized lyrics painted on a wall.

_Day of wrath—that day will dissolve the world into ashes._

How fitting, that those were the words and notes that finally came! Had he not first heard them here in Rouen, slender white fingertips conjuring the melody at a piano and a clear soubrette brightening the dark words into beautiful lyrics? _She_ would not like what her son could do with the notes and the words now, he thought. _She_ would have been afraid.

The hours and eternities passed, and so too did the music.

_Supplicating, I kneel—my heart broken as ash—take care of my end._

"Erik?"

A soft voice cut through the stupor of almost-sleep Erik was in. His cheek was resting uncomfortably on the keyboard of the piano, an arm flung protectively around his face. It was not the first time he had awoken in such a position, but it was the first time he had been roused out of it by someone quietly speaking his name. He was acutely aware of the feel of the keys on his bare skin.

"Mask," he murmured. His voice was hoarse.

"Where?"

"More on my dresser."

A hand rested on his shoulder very briefly and then he felt the weight of her presence retreat. A little while later she came to stand in the same place a little behind him, and set a mask on the piano. It was one of the comfortable fabric ones he reserved for his more private hours. Satisfied that she could only really see the back of his head—if she was looking—he straighten up and tied it on. He rolled his shoulders carefully. He still did not dare to turn to look at Mojgan. Looking back at the last while (hours? Days?) there were so many holes, and he was terrified to see her face. He did not know what would be worse: horror, disappointment, or kindness.

"Here. I have a tray. Come and eat something." she said. Her voice sounded kind. He supposed he could manage kindness.

He turned and rose with painful slowness. When did he grow so old? His armchair was only a few steps away, but it seemed so very, very distant at the moment. But he could smell the tea she had set down near the chair, very black and fragrant, and steaming. Next to it, bread heavily buttered. Trust Mojgan to pay attention to what he would unfailingly eat. He collapsed in the chair.

"How long was I?—" he gestured back at the piano before picking up the tea.

"Oh, not very," she replied. She was perched on a stool near him, but seemed strangely out of focus. "It was just after lunch when you came home. It's just gone midnight now."

He leaned his head back in the chair, trying to reconstruct the events of the day. "Did anything… was anyone hurt?"

"Hurt?" she echoed. "Erik, what do you think happened?"

He did not want to respond to her, but if there _was_ some fallout from the day's events, if they were obliged to leave town in a hurry, she had best be forewarned. And so honestly, he said, "I have no memory of it."

She nodded slowly. "No one was hurt. You fainted. At first the foreman thought you had struck your head when you—tripped, was it?—but you came around quickly and fled."

 _Fainted?_ Erik wondered at that. In all the times he could recall becoming unmasked in public, he had lashed out, suddenly and violently. Fatally, at times. He had never simply lost consciousness. Had he?

"…They're quite worried about you," Mojgan was still speaking. "I replied to the note, and said you will be back Monday morning."

"…Hm," was the only thing Erik could say in response. So articulate, the master contractor. Hard to believe he had very recently succeeded in extorting hundreds of thousands of francs from the opera management.

She said his name again, and it pulled him out of his revery. "Erik, I know you are upset about… something? But it is just the two of us here. There is no danger." He nodded in reply, too weary to enumerate all of the very real dangers that most certainly _were_ about. "Do you think you could sleep a little?" she asked.

The tea in Erik's cup was strong and sweet, but he still nodded. He felt… undone. He made to stand, gentlemanlike, when Mojgan arose from her perch, but she waved him to stay seated.

"May I get anything ready for you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I am sorry to have kept you up so late."

"Nonsense. You know I'm often still awake at this hour." She stood expectantly in front of him for another minute, but he shook his head again.

"I am well," he lied. He set down his tea. "I will be well. I will rest easier knowing you are in bed."

She nodded. "Just promise me to go to sleep soon."

"Very soon," he said. As it was, his eyes wanted to drift close. But they flew open when he felt when her arm slip around his shoulder in half an embrace. She leaned over him, her hair falling near his face, and may have pressed her lips to the top of his head for a fleeting instant—he could not be sure.

"Sleep well," she said and was away.

 _How?_ Erik's mind demanded. How was he supposed to sleep with all that jasmine and cardamom seeping under his skin?

But in this case, Erik's mind lost the war against his body, and he fell dead asleep as soon as he crawled into bed.

* * *

It was late when Erik awoke. Sunlight was pouring in through his bedroom windows—which meant someone must have come in and opened the curtains. He felt like he should find that fact far more disconcerting. Hadn't he locked his door last night?

Slowly, the previous day came back to him. The mask. The mad dash back to the house. Mojgan. The absolute miracle that no one had been hurt. At least—Erik could still assume so. He did not relish what lay ahead of him upon his return to work. But he had a vague memory of Mojgan telling him that he was not expected back until Monday. And what was it today? Friday? Yes, Friday morning.

But not morning for much longer, he realized in some startlement. It was closer to noon than morning.

The world was coming into focus again, in the too-bright too-loud style of a hangover. But he hadn't had anything to drink, had he? Just tea. With these thoughts working through his brain, he rolled out of bed. He took care of his most pressing needs, and rang for more water to be brought up.

Mother Bidault appeared. "Madame thought you might want a bath," she said.

A somewhat needless extravagance, Erik thought, but since the one tub had already been filled, he dutifully collected his clothes for the day and went downstairs to the wood-paneled bathroom. And he was glad afterwards to feel truly clean, as if the bath had washed away some of yesterday's shock as well as yesterday's dust. He had been told that Mojgan was in the dining room and so presented himself there once dressed, feeling almost human.

She looked up from a newspaper almost immediately. "Erik! You look well." Erik wanted to laugh at her, but she sounded sincere.

"I believe," Erik replied, "that your years as a noblewoman are showing. Capriciously commanding for baths and breakfasts in the middle of the day is _not_ appropriately bourgeoisie."

"I am not bourgeoisie, appropriate or otherwise," she said. The tone she was using was so uncharacteristically haughty that it would have been impossible to mistake her for being serious. "I am both a lady and a Lady."

"And a sultana," Erik pointed out, "unless I am much mistaken."

It was a foolish thing to say, and Erik could not conceive of why the words had come to mind—let alone come tumbling out. There were things they never spoke of—things that seemed to be fading in the face of French novels and the forests of Normandy. They were better left in the past, Erik firmly believed, and Mojgan was always quick to retreat when she unintentionally trod on some painful memory. How was it that _he_ had made such a blunder?

"The own the truth," she said, her only apparent concern being spreading cherry preserves on her bread, "I have always preferred to be Mojgan."

There was a lull in the conversation as more tea and a few extra dishes added to the bread and jam on the table, but when they were left alone again, he murmured, "'Mojgan' is what best suits you, in any event."

She inclined her head. "And you," she said, "are Erik."

He was, and he was hungry.

He had heard in the first days they had spent in the chateau how horrified Mother Bidault had been at Mojgan's request to have cheese with her bread in the morning, and after some deliberation, she had decided to forego even this simple staple. And so breakfast was always a straightforward affair, and he had been surprised to see that a lidded bowl had been set before him. Out of curiosity, he lifted the lid off.

"Please tell me," Erik said, eying the uncovered dish with some suspicion, "that you are not trying to serve me a plate of turnips."

"Well, not exclusively. But we had some, and so…"

"I don't have a cold," Erik replied drily, "and even if I did, I am not convinced that turnips are the cure-all you Persians seem to think they are."

"Of course not," Mojgan sounded affronted. "That's what the chai is for."

Erik maintained a fixed glare at Mojgan for some time. She remained indifferent, though she reached across and took buttered turnip onto her own plate. She ate it without comment. God spare Erik from folk cures. He had had enough of those in his life. But he _was_ hungry, and in between pieces of baguette hidden under layers of jam, he did condescend to poke at a few of the root vegetables.

Mojgan still did not comment. "What would you like to do today?"

He informed her of his intention to go straight back to work, but she shook her head fiercely.

"Oh, please, Erik—take a little rest. It will look peculiar if I told them you would be indisposed for a few days and you just… pop up."

"On the contrary," Erik said. "It will be a very fine thing for them to know that I am back on my feet. Respect, Mojgan. One must have the respect of one's workforce."

"You will not have their respect if you end up fainting dead away again," she said. "You don't even know why it happened."

Erik was loathed to contradict her, but he suspected that he _did_ know why. Fear. But where fear used to sharpen his senses, throwing things into stark relief—this time, it dulled him into senselessness. But, no—he did not want to say so. It was easier to allow himself to be persuaded into taking a day at his ease.

"Will you walk with me?" she asked.

"It's hot as blazes out there," Erik complained.

"Less so if you didn't wear black wool," she commented thoughtfully. "I don't see what would be so scandalous about wearing your shirtsleeves. We're unlikely to meet anyone, if we walk by the creek. Well, besides the deer."

"And wild boar. Really, it's mad that I've let you wander around like this for so long."

"I don't bother the boar and they do not bother me," Mojgan replied. She helped herself to more tea. "Mostly because I am not _so_ headstrong as to go out walking in the evening. And they're not quite as large here as the ones back home."

"Perhaps," Erik murmured. "I was almost killed by one, once." A faint noise of distressed interest encouraged him to continue. "But it probably was in the evening. And there were piglets." Rather adorable little things, with their brown and tan stripes.

"When did this happen?" Mojgan asked.

"Oh, I was a child," Erik shrugged. "And it wasn't in these woods; we lived to the east of the city."

The teacup was set down with uncommon force. "You were a child, here in Rouen?" she asked.

"To the east," he reiterated, but would not say more. "There was another incident with a boar—in Russia." This story he shared, even if the details were somewhat gory for the breakfast table, and by the end, Mojgan was shaking her head.

"You've almost persuaded me to give up walks in the forest," she said.

"Oh, nonsense," he said, rising from the table. "I'm quite looking forward to it now."

In the end, they did not set out until the worst heat of the day passed. Erik tinkered on his guitar, letting his piano rest for the morning, and then dutifully came out when Mojgan knocked. She had a wicker case with a strap slung over her shoulder, holding her smallest sketchbook and some water.

"Are we ready?" she asked.

Erik nodded, and they set out.

"I am curious," he said, as the chateau faded from sight. "You came into my parlor last night?" She nodded. "How?"

"How do you mean?"

"My memory is not very clear," he said slowly, "but I feel like I must have locked the door."

"Oh, yes," she said. "You did."

"I was not aware that breaking and entering was one of the skills a diplomat's wife learns."

She shrugged. "Perhaps or perhaps not. But asking the housekeeper for the keys certainly is. I hope you don't mind?"

Erik thought that he _should_ mind. But there had been something very steadying about having Mojgan come to see him, something that helped the fog and terror recede. He shook his head slowly. "You would not have done so in… years past, I think."

"No," she agreed. "I would not have. I wouldn't have even thought of it. I was comfortable keeping to women's quarters. And not simply because it was all that I knew."

"So you would leave me to the menservants, if that was an option?" he teased.

"Oh, no," she laughed. "I have grown accustomed to mixing with men. And I enjoy the company of some of them quite a bit."

Even in the shade of the trees, Mojgan had been right that it was too hot for Erik's black wool. He doffed his coat and flung it over a shoulder. "Well, then, another reason to be gladly rid of Persia."

"Oh, there must be something about it you liked," she said.

There was. Wealth. Power. Beauty. But he shook his head. "Nothing that I miss." He might have added, _since you're here with me anyway, and the good Daroga won't leave me alone._

"I suppose I understand you," she said. "I am content where I am, even if there are some things I miss."

"Well, of course there are _some things_ ," Erik agreed.

"Like?"

"Sholeh zard, for instance." The first time Erik had tried the bright yellow rice pudding, he had just occasion enough to steal a few bites. It was sweeter and creamier than he had expected, and he knew the price of saffron, and it had felt like a taste of the luxury his life had previously been devoid of. The second time he had it, he made himself sick off it—he had eaten several bowls over the course of the day, and nothing else—but that did not dampen his enthusiasm. He simply… learned. He wondered when Mojgan had first had it; probably, it had simply always been there on festival occasions.

"Of course," she replied, "but is there anything _besides_ sholeh zard that you miss?"

Without missing a beat, he replied. "Baghlava."

"Erik!"

"Bastani, too. Not too keen on faloodeh, but it was serve very nicely just now in all this heat."

"Anything besides desserts?"

He made a show of thinking about this. "You made very good fesenjan." They paused for a moment, as a flash of blue on the ground caught Mojgan's eye. She picked up a fallen tail feather and stored it with some others in her sketchbook. He had a sudden memory of her, in a green silk veil edged with pearls. The feathers seemed like a funny thing for such a woman to keep. "What do _you_ miss?" he asked.

"The Mohammedi roses blooming in Ghazvin," she said. "And the color of Damavand in the twilight. And, of course—being able to walk down a street and actually understand what people are saying."

Erik tilted his head a little. They were not conversing in Persian at the moment, and she did not seem to be struggling in the least. "Your French is more than passable, Mojgan."

"High praise, I thank you! I am somewhat proud of myself after all these years. But… it is one thing to understand the words, and a very different thing to understand what is being _said._ "

He had no argument for that.

* * *

They walked for perhaps an hour, skirting closer to some of the large old properties in the area. Mojgan had paused with her sketchbook to draw one of the last white narcissus to be seen, and Erik continued to amble within her line of sight. They had circled back around to an area close to one of the real footpaths, and there was a large chateau somewhere nearby. He could see a stone wall marking a boundary. It stretched quite far, and out of morbid curiosity, he went closer. He studied it with a carefully critical eye. It was not terribly tall, but the top was extremely even. The stone was set in an intricate, sturdy pattern of filled arches, and the thin lines of mortar seemed to be there as mere decoration. Erik suspected that the stones were so precisely cut that they would have stood fast without anything to bind them. It was magnificent work—classical principles underpinning and embellishing something that might have been purely utilitarian.

He followed the wall for a while, his hand skimming the top stones. He saw Mojgan arise from her spot and lifted his hand. She waved back and set out in his direction.

"I thought I had lost sight of you," she called.

"But I did not lose sight of you," he called back. He could not resist teasing her. "I am not an invalid, you know! You needn't hover. I do not intend to become the _third_ husband killed."

She shook her head in unwilling amusement. "Please, don't. At least the last one had the advantage of being a natural death—if we can call any death _natural_ , for all it must be."

"Are you sure it was so natural?" Erik asked. He could almost see the Daroga rising before his eyes to shake a fist at him for his impertinent questions. But the Daroga always wanted to shield Mojgan from more than _Mojgan_ chose to shield herself from.

"What are the odds that _both_ of the men I married would die by assassination?" she asked meditatively. "No, don't answer that. But, to be sure, the doctor seemed to think that it had much more to do with the fact that Reza was old enough to be my father." After a moment, she chuckled and shook her head.

Erik tilted his head at her, prompting her to share the joke.

"Just reflecting on my own mortality," she said. "I'm ten years older than my mother was when she died. Ten years younger than my father, when he died. At the time, it had felt like they had been _old_ when they passed. How wrong I was!" She kicked at a pebble in their path. "Forty years old, and I still feel like my life is just beginning."

"I've never had that luxury," Erik admitted. "One doesn't, you know, when one wakes up every morning already looking like death.

She had the audacity to rib him. "Come now, Erik. You look quite alive to me."

He shrugged. "Well. One must use the time one has. Build, if you can. Create, if you can. Make something to outlast you." He looked back at the stone wall, "If for no other reason than to torment the next generation."

"Are you tormented by the creations of the past generations?" she asked curiously. She followed his line of vision. "Are you thinking about how you could tear down and make up that wall better? It's probably stood there for hundreds of years, without anyone to help it."

"Not quite that long," Erik replied. "A few decades, perhaps, not centuries." He turned away and prompted their meandering course away from the property lines and back towards one of the footpaths. "And, no, I could not do better in this case. The craftsmanship is exquisite."

"If it is so recent, perhaps the mason is still around," Mojgan said reflectively. "Perhaps you could have him on your project."

"Oh, no," he said. "He's dead."

"Who was he? You must have asked someone about the stonework, for I do not believe your magical powers extend to divination."

Erik chuckled. "Neither! He was my father." Erik paused and turned around. Mojgan had halted several steps behind him, and stood there blinking. "Don't look so troubled. The fact that my parents predeceased me is perhaps the most _ordinary_ thing to have happened in my life."

"Yes, I suppose that is the usual way," she said slowly. All of the humor that had colored her own discussion of death was gone. He had never heard that particular tone from her before: was that what _horrified_ really sounded like in her voice? "I am sorry, Erik. I did not know."

 _How could you have? Erik barely knows himself._ He chuckled again. "Nothing to be sorry about. They've been dead these many years. I—checked, when I first returned to France." He waved in the general direction of Bonsecours. "The house was still there, of course. I bought some of the old furniture from the new owners. Very nice Louis-Philippe pieces. They're at the house under the lake."

"Your mother, too," she murmured. Was she picturing her own long-dead mother, with her brood of pretty daughters? Strange, Erik realized: there was not many years difference between the last times they had seen their respective mothers. Or was she merely remembering that she had sat on a dead woman's couch in Erik's flat?

"Oh, yes," Erik said, "He blew his brains out, you know, and then she died not too long after. Broken heart, from what I could discern. Quite romantic."

She had caught up with Erik again, and now linked her arm through his. "I could live without that kind of romance."

"Wise, perhaps, but not something I think one has a choice in deciding," he said. His mind was skimming over fuzzy old memories, indistinct and so far removed from his life as it now stood. "I was somewhat surprised. I would have expected _her_ to be the one to destroy herself. But ladies do not like spoiling their beauty with bullets, do they?"

They walked in silence for some time and eventually were back on the footpath proper again.

"Erik," Mojgan glanced up at him, "have you… ever thought to do as your father did?"

Erik very nearly launched into a technical explanation of building stone walls, when he caught her meaning. "Ah. While I admit a somewhat stronger than usual passion for black powder, I have never turned it on myself… in such a fashion." That he had willingly set his house abutted to enough gunpowder to take out the whole neighborhood of the Paris Opera was not quite the same, he reasoned. "I have found that, even when life is difficult, death is more so."

"So you would not try such a thing yourself?" It seemed like the grip of her hand at the crook of his elbow was tighter than necessary. The ground was not that uneven. Perhaps he could just feel it better through his shirtsleeves, as opposed to his coat.

"I have wished for death many times; it has not come yet," he said, "I have reconciled myself to seeing out my days. Such as they are."

"Good," she murmured, "that is good. It is as I said: forty, and life is still beginning."

"I am tired of beginning," Erik replied. "Beginning again—and again and again. But… I cannot claim that I want and _ending_ at just this moment."

"We're in the middle," Mojgan said. The lightness was starting to return. "Let us stay in the middle for a good long time."

He inclined his head fractionally. "As the lady commands."

* * *

When he returned to the construction site on Monday morning, Erik was met with both polite inquiries about his health and more than a few open stares. He brushed both off harshly.

Deadlines, he could contend with deadlines.

The morning went swiftly, but it was punctuated by one too many whispered.

 _Dead man walking,_ he heard someone say, _and left like the devil was on his heels._

So, that was how it was to be—again? At least, so far, the workers seemed content to still work. The usual lull of the lunch hour started to overtake the site, but Erik kept on with his work. He could not say he had fallen behind in just three and a half days, but there was some comfort in taking stock of the simple business of the building.

"Pardon me," he could make out a familiar voice in the distance, "but could you point me to Monsieur Rossi?" He had grown used to hearing the alias on his passport, but he couldn't recall having heard it in her voice before. He turned to see his foreman escorting Mojgan towards him.

"I know you're very busy," she started without preamble, "but could you spare me an hour, Erik? It's the upholsterer: Madame Bidault is finally letting me have the loveseat redone."

He blinked at her. More than one of the workmen had stopped to look, as well. She was trying to keep the hem of her skirt safe from the unfinished floor. "And you need me there for what purpose?"

"So you don't have me send back the fabric I order," she turned confidentially to the foreman, "I'm sure you've seen how he is about coordinating materials."

The foreman laughed. "Indeed, Madame. Monsieur, the committee inspector comes at three. Everything is well in hand before then."

Erik felt trapped. He knew the time, but pulled his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat to stall a little. After a moment, he offered a shallow bow. "Madame, I dance attendance on you until a quarter to one."

Mojgan gave an impudent half-curtsy in return and took Erik's arm. "Too generous, Monsieur."

They left the site with the faint sound of laughter following them. It set Erik's nerves on edge. They walked towards the city center, the Cathedral dominating the distance, and Erik cast his voice low for her ear.

"What," he inquired, "are you doing?"

"I think dark green," she said. "Patterned? But I do not want to clash with the lace curtains."

Erik vented an exasperated sigh. "You know very well what I mean, _Madame._ "

"I came to make sure my recently ill almost-husband was doing well," she replied calmly. "It is something like the done thing. Even with my—ah—nervous disorder? The heat will probably be too much for me, however, so feel free to decline any invitations that might be forthcoming."

Erik stuck at her side grimly, like a man awaiting execution, as they walked to the fabric warehouse. He was known there, after the question of the red velvet, and the man behind the counter was all prompt solicitude. His panic calmed only slightly under Mojgan's mild smile.

In short order, they selected a subtle damask of a somewhat cooler hue than Mojgan had at first favored. She had a good eye, Erik thought, but he had to concede that he would have noticed the (very slight) mismatch between her first choice and the dark stained walnut that framed the loveseat. This business completed, they dispensed with the cab they had taken on their way to the shop and started their walk back towards the riverbank and the opera. Erik could feel the glances thrown at them from time to time.

She was dressed for the heat in cotton—fine Indian cotton, woven almost as light as silk, and picked out with indigo embroidery—with a straw hat. To the band of this hat were affixed a few familiar mésange bleue feathers. Erik wondered how many fashionable women decorated their hats with their small finds from forest floors. She looked lovely, he thought, but not entirely point-device. He would need to speak to her about blending in better; though, as long as she was to be seen in his company, Erik thought it might be a moot point. They made for too high a contrast: him, tall and spare and pale and dressed in severe black; she, small and feminine and glowing bronze in her white dress.

And, truthfully, the glances did not seem quite as malevolent as Erik would have expected. No insults were offered. Just moments of attention that settled on the two of them and then moved harmlessly on.

There was a cart selling ices in the green park on their way back, and they paused on a bench, Mojgan at work on a lemon ice and Erik staring up into the trees. He liked trees, he thought. He liked what one could do with them, once they had been chopped down and shaped to man's will. But he liked them as they were, as well: tall and long-lasting.

He parted ways with her before returning to the worksite, twitting her for her unladylike gallivanting. She only smiled at him, and bid him a good day.

Erik stayed a little later than usual on the project, but the long summer days meant it was still bright as he returned home. He found Mojgan with her sewing box near the garden window, fixing a tear on a skirt with tiny, straight stitches.

"You knew," he declared.

She looked up. "Knew what?"

"When you came to the opera house," he said. He was standing very straight in the middle of the parlor, and was aware that he had slipped into something like the old Opera Ghost voice—a little too ringing for this pretty little room and its domestic inhabitant. Mojgan, however, did not appear discommoded. She merely set aside her work and waiting for him to continue. "You knew that you would give them… something else to speak of."

"Say rather, _hoped_ rather than _knew,_ " she said.

"It was a spectacle," he said flatly. "It worked." Even Erik's smoothest professional relationships—Garnier, say—had fallen short of… _comradery._ But today, even the fellows who usually glanced askance at Erik were obliged to admit that he was not _so_ different than they were. He had been complimented on his attractive wife; had found himself received into a hitherto unguessed-at club of men whose wives were likewise peskily interested in their welfare. He was keenly aware of the deception. But just as the guise of the Shah's indomitable _jadguar_ or the Garnier's commanding _ghost_ had proved to be very useful, so too was this new charade of _husband_.

Mojgan smiled at him. "Good. I have a surprise for you." She stood and went to the bell pull.

"I think I've had quite enough surprises recently, thank _you,_ " Erik said.

"I promise you'll like it."

Mother Bidault appeared with a tray and set it down on the usual side table. The old woman cast a suspicious glance at it before taking her leave. Curiosity piqued, Erik wandered over. "Cooking again, Mojgan?" The centerpiece of the tray was a glass goblet, filled with set, blindingly saffron yellow pudding. Cinnamon and pistachios had been painstakingly set as delicate little flowers to decorate the smooth top. It was the first sholeh zard Erik had seen in twenty years.

Mojgan was grinning now, and she held up a spoon. Erik took it from her silently.

No, his imagination really had fallen short on what life with a wife might be like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of you already have, but you can get a glimpse of this Erik's backstory in _[les cieux et la terre](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24338956)_. It's not required reading for this story, as it covers things that Erik doesn't know/doesn't remember.


	50. Else Fars Were But

Reading was a pleasure that Nadir had found later in life. Oh, he had been well-educated in his youth. And his career had called for a constant intake of information. But it had been simply that: information. Back in those days, even when he had been occasioned to read some novel or volume of poetry, it had usually been with an eye to understanding the _other_ people who might have read it.

Now, Nadir had his leisure. Perhaps he had had more money in former days, but time truly had proved to be the most valuable thing.

Darius had asked leave to help their landlady with a few projects, which Nadir allowed without reservation. It was only out of habit that the boy asked, as it was. When was the last time Nadir had said 'no' to him? If Darius wanted to use his time to do a kind service for the woman who controlled their rent—why would Nadir stop him? And if there were _other_ incentives at play? Well, Nadir had several times been near to the point of telling Darius that he could go see the landlady's pretty daughter without sneaking around like a naughty schoolboy. But as Darius had not made actual mention of Irène Lantins yet, Nadir thought it best to maintain the polite fiction that he did not know his faithful servant had tumbled into a full affaire de coeur.

So it was that the Darius was off acting the handyman, and Nadir was comfortable with the summer sun warming his back as he sat and read. Sylvestre Bonnard had not yet committed the Crime indicated by the title, insofar as Nadir could see. Indeed, he was fast coming to the conclusion that he was _not_ reading a mystery novel. But like any detective worth his title, Nadir was compelled to see the matter through to its conclusion.

He may have succeeded to that end, were he not interrupted by a visitor.

The knock at the door was a curious one. It was not Erik's usual authoritative two beats nor the nervous scratching he otherwise did in his unsettled moods. Nor was it Mojgan's now-familiar tap-tap-tap, or Mifroid's businesslike knock. It was a firm hand, but not heavy; brisk but unhurried. A man, Nadir reasoned, from the height on the door and the general tone.

It a man—a young man. It was the Vicomte de Chagny. Or rather, the Comte de Chagny.

Nadir stumbled over that change of title in his greeting, thoroughly caught off guard and annoyed that he had not foreseen this visit as a possibility.

Raoul simply waved the mix-up away (rather like a count might, Nadir thought ruefully.) "Say rather, your friend de Chagny!"

Count, Monsieur, or simply Friend, Nadir stepped aside and let Raoul into his parlor. He sent up a quick prayer that, on the slight chance Erik had decided _this_ would be a good day to leave Normandy, that his train would be derailed, or carriage overturned, or one way or the other _would not cross paths with Raoul de Chagny._ He made the pro forma offer of refreshment—which was declined—and the usual polite inquiries.

When Raoul replied quickly, "very well, thank you!" Nadir felt compelled to observe him more closely. Indeed, the young man _did_ look 'very well.' The oppression Nadir had last seen him under had lifted and left no trace on the young, earnest face. He had a sailor's dark, ruddy complexion, his hair further lightened by the sun and surf. His eyes were clear and bright, his smile genuine and warm, his bearing confident and at ease. He looked, in a word, like a man. It was less than a year, and he was already losing the slightness of youth. His moustache had filled out from its previous wisp.

Looking at him, Nadir could not help but envy the resilience of youth. He asked the next polite question, the one he was most interested in having answered. "And your wife is well?"

There was a clear attempt to be serious on the count's part, but it gave way to the first sign of lingering boyishness Nadir had yet seen. He grinned in unmitigated delight. " _Very_ well, indeed. At first she—we—were concerned that it might be difficult to settle in, er—"

"Mifroid told me that we were established in Stockholm," Nadir interjected.

Raoul looked relieved that he did not need to choose how much to say or conceal. If Nadir had been a different man, he might have been miffed that his discretion was a matter of concern. But he understood the strain of their shared adventures, the caution that it must stamp into even the most irrepressible spirit. Indeed, he respected the count more for it. "Quite so! It had been so very long since Christine had lived in Sweden, and there was the question of how Mama Valerius would cope with the weather… but, in the end, we have become very comfortable there. Christine has set up house so nicely! Just a few weeks ago, we realized that we had blueberries planted all about the property, and I think it safe to say that we were purple for all of July." He chuckled at some fond memory. "It will be a wonderful place to raise a family."

Nadir raised his eyebrows in polite inquiry, which Raoul responded to with another blinding grin. "My congratulations."

There was a brief struggle as Raoul pulled his countenance under better control—perhaps he remembered that they were not, in fact, _friends._ "It is one of the items of business that returned me to Paris. I have not felt the need to call on the resources of my estate as yet, but would like to line up a few matters for the coming months—or years."

"Practical."

Now, the count really did become serious. "I admit I am grateful for Christine's interesting condition just now. She would have felt obliged to travel with me otherwise, to _finish_ the business. But I have promised to do so in her stead."

"Oh?" Part of his mind had been puzzling out how best to deal with this exact matter since he saw Raoul on his doorstep, but Nadir felt he could use another minute or two.

"We were religious with our reading of _Le Epoque,_ " de Chagny said. "And so… it is quite finished?"

"Yes," Nadir said. "It is finished." It was not a lie, strictly speaking. Nadir truly believed that Erik had turned the page on that chapter—as he had left behind so many other unfinished stories in years past. He felt confident that Raoul and Christine could do the same safely.

"Are there, er, arrangements to be made?"

Nadir shook his head. "No."

Any compunction Nadir might have felt at deceiving the count vanished when Raoul released a long breath. If Nadir had thought he looked comfortable and sunny before, it was even more marked now. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and fished something out. He set a plain gold wedding band on the table set between them.

"Perhaps you can see that this is placed as appropriately as possible?" he asked, businesslike. "I would like to be able to tell Christine that I at least saw to that much."

Nadir let the ring stay at rest. "You have my word. Tell your wife to rest easy—and to find joy. Both of you."

No, they were not friends. Raoul de Chagny took his leave soon afterwards. And though Nadir did not doubt his earnestness, or his protestations of thanks, he suspected the young man was as glad to leave as Nadir was glad to see him go. He supposed he should communicate with Erik on the matter, but he did not relish that idea.

He made to pick up his book again, but instead found himself looking over the paper he had thrust between the pages to mark his place. It was Mojgan's latest letter.

She was a curious writer, he found, at times chronicling some insignificant incident in minute detail, and at others passing over huge swathes of time and story with an ironical _but I mustn't ramble on…_ Whenever her wit did show itself, it tended towards the sharp, the cynical, and the self-deprecating. But even trying to read between the lines of the straightforward statements was an exercise of his reasoning abilities.

_With the opening of the opera house mere weeks away, Erik is constantly at work. When not in the city itself, he is bent over his desk, and I believe will soon diminish his height by several centimeters if we do not acquire a piece of furniture better suited to his stature._

That was an easy one. Erik had thrown himself into his project and was being obnoxious. Nadir could easily imagine the late nights and early mornings; the increasingly short temper brought on by lack of sleep and insufficient food. But, if that last little quirk— _if we do not_ —made Nadir think the genius might not be allowed to run _quite_ so bad this time around. Probably to everyone's benefit.

 _As you know, Erik's connection to Rouen stretches back_ very _far_.

That was an interesting knot to untie, a little throwaway line in the middle of a paragraph about the wildflowers giving way to the end of summer. Just a few words, and yet it implied an almost unprecedented amount of communication had passed between Mojgan and Erik: Nadir could not remember Erik having made more than two or three passing references to the _general_ location of his childhood in the course of their entire acquaintanceship. It had been a feat of investigation, which Nadir had to grudgingly concede was liberally helped along by luck, that he had ever come to discover Erik's birthplace. But apparently, he had shared something of it with Mojgan—and it had come up that Nadir also knew. He could not quite picture what those conversations must look like, but apparently, they had happened.

_Erik intends a return to Paris after the stage is inaugurated, and is suggesting that I trespass on your hospitality. But I do not know if that is quite possible; I will see what arrangements are best to make. In the meantime, Erik is taking a small break from his duties, and the house is filled with music. It is the sound of happiness._

That was the most difficult puzzle of all. What was it that Erik was thinking? What was it that he wanted to do in Paris? What would Mojgan do? Oh—there was no question, Nadir would find a way to put her under his roof for a time. But why did Erik suggest it? But more than any of these practical little details: _the house is filled with music. It is the sound of happiness._

No sharp wit there—even the lines of her letters seemed softer. The last _yeh_ in _happiness_ seemed to fairly dance.

And then he had to wonder: Erik, Erik, Erik. His name pervaded her letters. Oh, Nadir was also privy to all sorts of mundane details about the household, and to the glories of the Normandy forests, and so on. But everywhere in it, Erik was to be found. _Erik liked this… Erik did that… Erik said…_

He suspected that he was not merely receiving news of a neutral, mutual friend. He folded the letter again and set it to the side. He would write his reply tomorrow, making sure to emphasis that he would view any other arrangement than Mojgan staying with him for a visit as a grave offense. She would laugh at him—but she would come.

By the time _The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard_ was revealed (Nadir was disappointed), it was dark and he heard Darius unlocking the front door.

Nadir said a friendly greeting, which startled Darius. Ah, so something was afoot. Nadir set aside his book yet again, cleaned his glasses, and inquired politely after Darius's day.

"They need a great deal of help," Darius said slowly. "There are many things that have fallen into disrepair since Madame Lantins' father died. Her husband helped a little, but since they did not live here… I am sorry that I was gone for so much of the day. Did you find what I left in the larder?"

"Contrary to common belief, I am capable of feeding myself," Nadir said equitably. The look on Darius's face said that he still held with the common belief. "So, who was the harsher mistress—Madame Serrurier, or her pretty daughter?"

It was probably not kind to tease Darius, but, after all, he _was_ a grown man, for all his blushes. "They were both grateful for the help. There's still more to do, but—well, I did want to speak with you, Daroga."

"I've already said that I have no objection," Nadir said. "But I suspect that you do not want to discuss your list of future chores. Sit down, Darius." Darius sat at the edge of the armchair. Nadir leaned forward and fixed him with a serious stare. " _Relax."_

Darius broke out in laugher, and leaned back. Nadir smiled in turn. "I'm a fool, Daroga! I feel like that boy trying to fix up your coat and return it to you and not knowing which way to go or who to ask."

"That boy," Nadir said, "who fixed up my coat was no fool. He was a good child who grew up to be a good man."

"Perhaps. And yet— ' _I was not like this before,_ '" he loosely quoted, "' _out of my mind and senses. I used to be wise like you…_ '"

"' _But now, so deeply enchanted_?'" Nadir offered another line from the poem.

" _'So deeply enthralled,_ '" Darius concluded in a tone of confession. "I've been speaking with Madame Lantins—Irène." Nadir gestured for Darius to continue. "I mean to marry her."

"That is wise," Nadir agreed, "especially if you intend to continue coming home smelling so strongly of her perfume." Darius turned suitably red at this comment. No doubt he would have stammered through some sort of explanation, and it would have been entertaining, but Nadir decided to spare him that particular discomfort. "And so the sooner the better. I know for a fact that Masood would help you find a new position with a better salary."

The mad blush faded and Darius frowned. "That's… not a consideration, Daroga."

"It should be," Nadir did not try to soften his cynical tone, "God knows I wish I could settle a pension on you for your service, Darius, but—"

"We'll manage," Darius interrupted. "The three townhouses are Irène's inheritance, but we mean to help Madame Serrurier with them now. There is a great deal of maintenance to occupy us. And we think we can use Irène's jointure from her first husband to buy out the Bianchis next door. That would give us seven tenants in total; more than enough."

"Only seven?" Nadir asked pointedly.

"You can't imagine that we would want you to keep paying for the apartment!" Darius paused for a moment. "I am not _so_ far out of my senses."

"You may find that a husband has more pressing concerns than caring for—an old friend," Nadir intoned. "Rightly so. And, a father…"

Oh, yes, the younger man was badly love-bitten. He had turned positively dreamy at Nadir's last statement, and likely would have returned to Rumi if not forestalled. A lenient master Nadir might be, but he had no particular desire to sit through a starry-eyed recitation of _Like this_ at the moment. "Promise me that it will be one or the other: either speak to Masood about a salaried position, or promise to charge me my fair rent. I already know you negotiated a shamefully cheap price for us."

Darius nodded slowly, though Nadir fancied he could see him coming up with ideas to work around the promise. How was it, Nadir wondered, he had ended up with such a bunch of schemers—lovable and well-meaning as they were? "I should tell you that, while I figured out the sums, it was Irène who brought the idea up. It is as important to her as to me to see… everyone cared for."

Nadir nodded in turn and, after a moment, stood. Darius scrambled to his feet as well, and Nadir offered him his hand. He shook it firmly, and clasped Darius's shoulder. "I have known her as a good woman for many years now. But I am looking forward to becoming better acquainted with her."

"Thank you, agha," Darius replied. There might have been tears standing in his eyes, but Nadir could not be sure. His own were inexplicably fuzzy. He must not have cleaned his glasses as well as he had thought. He released his hand and started for the hallway. It was feeling very late, indeed. But he paused for a moment and turned back. He could not help the mischief in his voice. "Tell me: is Madame Lantins looking forward to becoming Madame Mazandarani?"

The blush returned, and a short sigh followed it. "She may have been under the impression until quite recently that she was to be _Madame Darius._ These last names are a nuisance."

Nadir chuckled. "You might consider changing it. I think you will need a letter from the Embassy to stand instead of a birth certificate for the registrar as it is."

"Perhaps," Darius said slowly, "though I haven't any idea what to use."

"May I suggest that you take the surname I chose?" Nadir was deliberately casual, but he knew that Darius would not take the offer lightly. "Oh—not the title they all mix up. I could shoot myself for writing that down in my papers. Though you _could_ call yourself a khan and no one would be any the wiser."

Darius was truly smiling now, even as he shook his head. "Thank you, but no. But I will ask Irène if she prefers to be _Madame Lepersan._ I believe she might."

"It is a little on the nose," Nadir admitted. "But it serves. And—well, we've stuck together this long. To my delight."

"I am honored," Darius murmured. As Nadir turned and continued on to his room, he heard Darius add, even more quietly, " _khan agha._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am unfairly dropping hints about the story... in Persian. A language I do not speak, and that this story is not written in. But I swear they're there


	51. A Barren Soil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee medical emergency derailed this week's posting schedule. Hopefully not for much longer... we're almost there!

Erik had not been invited to the opening night gala of the Palais Garnier. He had not expected to be.

That had not stopped him from attending. He slipped in and out of the shadows he had helped build into the place, had listened to _La Juive_ from his secret hideaways. The music eventually ended, but the revelries lasted far into the night. These interested him less, though he had taken a little time to walk amongst them. He was pleased to see his opera at the center of so much rejoicing. Still, he soon took the opportunity to slip away once again. He stood across the street, on the Place de l'Opera, and he _looked._

He looked at the blazing light pouring out of every massive window, catching on the elaborate decoration of the exterior. The busts of the (arguably) great composers overlooked the representations of their arts like stern lovers. Above them, Harmony and Poetry stood as blazing gold sentinels in the artificially bright midnight—and highest of all stood Musagetes himself, Apollo with his gold lyre.

How to explain the feeling of seeing the Palais Garnier come truly to life for the first time? It was the long finish of an exceptional wine, the thrill of a perfectly executed roulade, the beauty of a keystone locking all its fellow voussoirs in to place.

And it belonged to Erik.

This time, he _had_ been invited to the premier of this stage. The invitation had arrived quite recently, it's envelope bearing the direction _Monsieur and Madame Rossi._ The seats of the tickets were little to boast of, but he supposed any invitation was a coup for him. Still, he had not thought to go until Sauvageot's annoyance that the invitation had been extended at all compelled Erik to accept. He might even go so far as to say that he was looking forward to it.

And yet Erik already knew, as he surveyed the mostly completely Theatre des arts, that he would not recapture those heady feelings he had experienced in years past. He could not say he was proud of his work—excellence was what he expected from himself, and was therefore nothing to celebrate—but he was content with a job well done. Nor was he ashamed of the theater's workmanlike exterior. The Rouen Opera had been bringing music to the city for a century, and would continue to do so. _That_ was a project worth the undertaking, and he was glad to have contributed something to it, even if it was simply ensuring that this box of a building did its job.

But it was not _his._ And no amount of lighting and music and revelry would make it so.

"I believe this is the first project I've worked on wherein we are both on schedule _and_ on budget," his foreman, Planche, commented. "Monsieur, whatever your next contract is, I beg you keep me in mind."

Erik had agreed with a curt nod, and the foreman had walked away smiling. But it raised the question: what _was_ his next contract? There were plenty of options. He had been approached for private residences, for city works, even for a few foreign projects. But none of them struck him as something he truly wanted to do.

It had seemed like such a _normal_ thing to do, to use one's abilities to earn a salary. He had been doing so, in one way or another, most of his life. But there had been any number of days over the past summer when he would have preferred to devote himself to composition. Instead, he took the tram into town and… went to work. It was draining his soul, he decided, whatever he had left of one. He wanted to be done with it, not trapped for another six months—or _years._

Was it possible to both retire from the world, and still touch it? It was a question that had increasingly pestered him over the last few weeks. If it was strictly a question of money, Erik was not compelled to work. The interest of what he had in banks and funds could keep him quite comfortably, never mind the other assets he had accumulated over the years. He could buy a house, live quietly off the fortune he had squirreled away, play and invent and learn as he saw fit.

It was an appealing thought: to go back to the only schedule he kept being the one he set for himself. He had set up his life in the Garnier specifically to that end, and had enjoyed those aspects of it. He hoped that at this point in his life he could claim the manners of a gentleman. Having the _station_ of one had never been of any concern to him. He had enjoyed having well-made clothes, but did not care if he had to clean and mend them himself. He liked good food; that he cooked it himself and then washed his dishes did not bother him. Undertaking these mundane tasks had been worth the freedom it afforded him at the time.

And, yet… these last few months had taken on a different shape. Someone else washed his clothes. Someone else cooked his food. Someone else cared for his horse, and washed the floor, and disposed of the rubbish, and collected the post, and brought in flowers. And he had to confess that it was _not_ the horrible intrusion he had thought it would be.

But just as he had not known how to replicate the freedoms granted to the Opera Ghost without also taking on its restraints, he did not know how to take what he liked of this life and leave behind what he found confining.

He could buy his house, yes. He could speak to his bankers and work out his income. He could set up his music room and his workshop, and let someone else see to the cleaning and cooking. There was simply one element that destabilized the whole idea.

He knew he could not do it alone.

He might have been able to tolerate his housekeeper, he thought. Perhaps she would have even heeded the scrawled notes he surely would have left for her, as the managers of the Garnier had once done. But his life alone would not have been quite so comfortable. He needed that bulwark between him and the people who now attended to his needs and wants, a kindly tollkeeper who made sure that everything and everyone who entered Erik's private sphere was, if not strictly to his taste, at least not a nuisance. It was in the bread and butter at breakfast and the store of sweetmeats that never seemed to run out. It was the pressed collars and mended socks. It was the open windows during the sultry evenings and bowls of roses by his shaving basin.

It was Mojgan, and that frustrated him.

And it was a frustration he could not seem to escape. As soon as he entered the foyer that evening, Mother Bidault informed him, "Madame would like you to attend to her in her chambers."

Beneath his mask, Erik's eyebrows rose. "Indeed?" But the older woman paid him little heed, already brushing Erik's overcoat with quick, efficient motions. And so without any further explanations forthcoming, he started up the stairs.

He wanted to turn away. He wanted to tell the housekeeper, _Erik does not wait on_ Madame _'s whims._ But even as irritation simmered in his stomach, he did not resist the interest he felt. Mojgan had popped her head in to his own rooms perhaps thrice over the last several weeks—since the incident at work—but he had never ventured into her private rooms.

He found the door ajar and the windows thrown open to let the remaining daylight in.

"Oh, Erik, good!" Mojgan was half-hidden by a deep armoire but poked her head out. He wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to hearing those words said, as if she was pleased to see him. "I wanted your help." She pulled out a dress from the armoire and draped it over the back of a chair. It was not alone: a handful of evening gowns were spread out over most of the furniture. When they had left for Rouen, most of her wardrobe had stayed behind, and, by her own choice, the formalwear was the most reduced. But it would have been hard to guess based on the current evidence.

"What do you think, Erik?" she asked, anxiously looking around the room. "The blue velvet is very pretty, but not quite in season. I think either the black lace or the gold moire, but look at this one—" she directed his attention to the bed, which showcased a exceptionally well-crafted dress, "I never had a chance to wear it, and it is so lovely."

Erik blinked against the sudden onslaught of colors and fabrics. It seemed like the frustration he had felt mere moments ago was smothered by the profusion of clothes, by Mojgan biting her lip and gesturing wildly. He had followed the line of her finger as she had pointed to each dress in turn, and now rested on the final piece under debate. Garlands of silk flowers played between carefully draped claret-colored chiffon. "Yes, lovely," he replied, somewhat bewildered.

"But it's a bit de trop, isn't it?" she sighed. "And yet, it is criminal for a Worth design to stay packed away in cedars."

"This is for the premiere, correct? It may attract rather more attention than suits the occasion," he said carefully. For his part, he did not see why anything beautiful should be off-limits to a woman—but they had managed so well for so long to have everything undone by a dress a contractor probably could not have afforded to give his wife. "And the color would not be shown to best advantage in the theater's interior."

She sighed, resigned. "As I thought. It's the black, then." She walked over to the vanity and picked up the bodice of that dress, holding it up and thinking about God-alone knew what little nuances of dress women concerned themselves with.

"Also quite lovely," Erik offered.

"It will suit your superfine," she agreed. "And the only jewelry I brought appropriate for evening wear are the pearls—they're discreet enough, and probably go best with this one as it is." She started smoothing out the other gowns, preparing to repack them.

"I beg your pardon," Erik cut in, "but did you ask me up here simply to sanction your choice of evening gowns?"

"Nothing simple about it," she said, "as ridiculous as it is, I haven't had the last say in my clothes for _years._ Or the first say, for that matter. Not knowing anything about the venue or what you expected was quite daunting!" Now her tone was mischievous, "who is to say what might have happened if I had been left to my own devices."

Erik suspected that absolutely nothing would have changed without his so-called help. Still, he said, "Oh, I know! It would have been that red dress, with robin feathers stuck in your hair."

She laughed. "Very likely! You gentlemen have it easy in your white ties." She turned her attention to Erik for a moment, looking between him and the black dress. "Yes, I think we'll go together quite well."

"Madame, I am flattered." She smiled at him and then sighed deeply as she arranged the Worth gown in a trunk. He was caught by the sigh, and by the beautiful color of the chiffon. "I will tell you what: I will make sure to take you somewhere where you can wear your pretty dress— _before_ it goes out of fashion." The words had tumbled out so quickly that Erik had not even had time to think them through. _Fool._

"I accept!" she chirped. "Just bear in mind that fashion might change tomorrow."

A few more words were bantered between the two of them, and then Erik left her to the rearrangement of her trunks.

The frustration returned almost at once. Strange, how in faded in the light of her smile, and then came back tenfold as soon as he was out of her presence.

…and they had called _him_ a sorcerer.

It was not that he did not like her company. Her presence had made the business of life a pleasant thing. But just was the Rouen Opera was not his, Mojgan was not his. She no more belonged to him now than she had all those years ago, sitting in her walled garden in Mazandaran with Feridoon Ali Jah. She may have brought a light, comfortable touch to his life, but it was simply _kindness._

He thought he had craved kindness. Once, he had thought that if only the world held _some_ kindness out to him, he could be happy. But now he was surrounded by it, and it was maddening. It was another dream that disappeared when he tried to touch it. Or rather, he was so sure that it would disappear that he now resisted reaching for it.

There would come a day, very soon now, when Erik would be alone again.

The thought was almost unbearable, and so he did the only thing he could think of to ease the pain of it. He shut the door to the parlor with his piano, and he did not respond when Mojgan knocked to ask if he wanted anything for dinner.

* * *

July was coming to an end.

Erik had a new routine. He dragged himself out of bed, and took the very first tram into Rouen. He stayed until the sun had almost set. He snuck into the kitchen and raided the pantry. It was increasingly common for him to find a full meal, neatly arranged and perfectly good at room temperature, waiting for him. He pointedly ignored the implications of that. He retreated to his rooms, locked his door, and composed.

Occasionally, he would cross paths with Mojgan. The worry in her eyes was almost overpowering, but he was always civil, always polite. He was busy, and he needed time to himself. She accepted this with fair enough grace. She still occasionally knocked at his door, but softly enough that he could choose to ignore it.

He usually chose to ignore it.

Mother Bidault was apparently displeased with him. She stopped having his shoes shined. Planche once drily asked if _Madame had locked her door on him_ , but threw up his hands at Erik's withering glare.

But the music did not abandon him this time, not entirely. He knew now that she was not another opera: she was a symphony, a choral symphony. What that chorus would sing, he was not yet sure. But her opening sonata was taking shape, and there was an extended sequence that he could only call a leitmotif—he simply wasn't sure what of. She was a flirt, to be sure, but _not_ like Don Juan. There was an almost unbearable earnestness in her character, a passion for truth that he could not understand and a hope for the future he could not relate to.

The only thing he could do was play its bits and pieces over and over again, until they coalesced into something real.

He still did not know what to call her.

After a full ten days of this had elapsed, he ran unavoidably into Mojgan. She held out his post to him.

"It's the next installment of _Godfrey Morgan_ ," she said. She might as well have been the one wearing the mask, considering how unreadable Erik found her face to be. Soft, he thought. Soft eyes and soft lips, nothing set into harsh lines for all the stark angles of her dark brows and high nose. But soft told him nothing.

All it did was undo the past week, and he felt like his heart half melted as he reached out and took the magazine from her. "I suppose I have time to read a little," he murmured. "Tonight."

She smiled, and the other half of his heart melted.

It was torture, he decided, as he read of the titular Godfrey washing ashore on some distant, deserted island. It was simply torture to live like an ordinary man with and ordinary job and wife. But, it was a torture he could bear up with until it was over—for it would end, eventually.

He started leaving his door open again, and Mojgan started wandering in as he played. She seemed to know instinctively when to be a passive audience, and when to distract him with food or humor or some other triviality.

She asked him the plaguing question one day: "what is it about?"

"I'm not sure," Erik confessed, his fingers dancing through the primary motif almost of their own volition and with an added flourish. "I think… I think it might be _happiness._ "

 _But I do not know,_ he added silently, _because it is new and strange._

* * *

August came, and Erik was too busy to be frustrated about Mojgan. (Planche once again commented, "ah, Madame must being feeling better!" And Erik had to wonder how many men found their happiness dependent on the moods of their women, for it to be such a throwaway assumption.) He was merely grateful that he had lunches packed for him, and that no matter how dusty or late he came home, he was greeted with a smile. Usually, she'd speak in French, occasionally she would lapse into Persian—but the content was always the same. _Erik, good to see you. Erik, I'm glad you are home._

He would reply from time to time with a sharp, _how kind of you to say so._ But if she ever detected the sarcasm, she did not let on.

As the project wound down, she fairly begged him to take a few hours of refreshment. And so he found himself once again with Mojgan in the woods not too far from their chateau. It was Sunday, and they were perhaps the only ones for miles around not to be found in a church. Instead, they picnicked under the great trees, and Erik may have fallen asleep for an hour or two. He was not sure what to make of the sketch he glimpsed her Mojgan's book later that day. It was a drawing that showed him in repose, one hand tucked under his head and the other flung over his stomach, with a wisp of hair falling over his brow and the lines of his mask only visible as a slight shadowing around the eyes. She caught the patrician lines of his leather mask too well, as if they were actually the skin over his bones. He knew she had seen the reality of his face, long ago and far away. But if the drawing was anything to go by, it was not how she _saw_ him.

It troubled him, and he would have been cold to her again if she had given him the chance. But she did not.

August would end soon, and then September—and then where would they be? But that was a thought that he could put out of his mind for hours or days at a time, especially when they would simply _talk._

Erik sometimes thought that he had never talked so much in his life, not to another person. There were some topics they did not touch—after Erik's slip about _sultanas_ , he had been careful to avoid any mention of those troubling days. He did not want to remind Mojgan of what they had been. But he spoke more of other parts of his life, the adventures she had not seen. She made him promise to teach her how to use the hollow reeds to stay swimming under water, and marveled at the quick sketches he dashed off of the irregular little islets rising like green hills out of the water in the Gulf of Tonkin.

She did the same, and he now knew the names and particular tastes of the dozen-plus nieces and nephews she had left behind in Ghazvin. He knew how she suffered in grand balls rooms, feeling undressed and barely understanding a word spoken to her, and how far back the desire to trample out of the house and into the woods went back. It was a desire much older he had suspected. As far back as childhood, she had yearned for that freedom even as she had learned to be content in the mold of perfectly responsible, perfectly respectable woman.

The adventures had been grand and exciting, she felt, but she would rather stay quiet now, quiet and free. Erik understood perfectly, and pushed aside the constant grievance, _why can we not have that?_

"Why can't we?" she asked, when he said those words aloud by mistake. It was a casual conversation, at the end of a perfectly fine day, as she sat next to him on the piano bench.

Erik found that his tongue tied in knots, and that serious words would not come. His mind warred with itself: he wanted to tell her that he anticipated the unhappy day they would leave Rouen. But to what end? The only thing to do would be to beg her stay with him, and that he could not do. He had done it before, with other women. Passion had overruled his good sense then, both as a young man and as an older one. But now his heart was not lost, and so his head could rule. And his head said, _we will not discuss this with her._

"Why?" he replied whimsically. "Because man is mortal and no one wants to throw off those chains, for all they talk of heaven. And so, no freedom. And no quiet." He played a flourishing scale to punctuate his point.

"Pardon me, but I think I might be able to find those things in _life_ ," she said. "This seems to be a fair start."

"That is because you are not constantly running through the middle of Rouen, trying to herd contractors, surveyors, artisans, and concerned citizens," Erik said. "And so I shall have peace and quiet when I am dead."

"Shall I undertake your funeral arrangements, then?" Mojgan asked lightly. "I heard tell that you wanted to be buried in the cellars of the opera house. Very quiet there."

"Yes, I still rather think so." He was brought up short by her comment, as was so often the case these days. The profoundly serious and the profoundly frivolous had a way of cropping up in even the simplest of their conversations. "Dust to dust is so bleak—why not music to music?"

"Why, indeed," she nodded. He had to laugh at her. "What? What have I said?"

"Many people have wanted to see me dead," he said. "But few have cared what would come after."

"Well," she said slowly. "You know you can rely on me."

He was silent for a long time. She meant it, he felt. She did not realize it was temporary, but she meant it. And so he felt like he could reply, "Yes, I do."

"Still buried with _Don Juan."_

"Certainly. It's the only fit ending for it." There was too much of Erik in that music, and he knew it would be received with all of the animosity and misunderstanding he had endured over the years. That was not what he wanted for his old friend. "I asked Christine to come, and give me back my wedding ring - when that happens."

"Do you still want it?" Mojgan asked. Her gaze was very steady, and Erik could read nothing in her dark eyes. He had an itching suspicion that, no matter how he replied, she would see to it. Perhaps that was what she had meant— _you can rely on me._ Perhaps there would come a time when he could not count on her to smile at him or keep him company on the piano bench. But, _perhaps_ , when there was no one left to Erik other than the real Angel of Death, perhaps he _could_ rely on her. He pushed that idea aside and instead thought of the last woman who he had trusted to be there in the end. He had been wrong about that one. He was probably wrong about this, as well.

_He would not ask again._

"No. Oh, no," he shook his head. "We neither of us need that."

Now there was something in her eyes. Relief? Yes, tracking down Christine _would_ have been an uncomfortable task. Her eyes flickered down onto the piano board and rested on Erik's hand. "You could still wear a wedding ring."

He chuckled. "Your sense of humor has become increasingly perverse, my dear."

"I mean it," she said. Now she was looking at Erik's face, searching for his eyes hiding in the shadow of the mask. He could tell that she _was_ earnest, but to what end?

He shrugged. The notes were coming again, forming themselves under his fingertips into something light and airy. "Perhaps I'll take your rubies down to the grave. I still have that ring. How will that serve?"

Her smile flickered. "It will have to do." She arose and pulled out a letter from the back pocket of her skirt. "I heard from Nadir today. He had some news that he wanted to share with you."

"Oh? And he did not think to simply write to me?"

"I've told him how busy you've been," Mojgan said. "But he says that if you want to know more to write and he will reply as best he can."

Now Erik's curiosity was piqued and he had Mojgan sit down again. Nadir had written to her in spare words about the visit of Raoul de Chagny, and that it had taken little to convince the boy that the past should be put to rest. _Surely,_ Nadir wrote, _Erik will agree._

 _Did_ Erik agree? It had been many months since he had first thought that it was for the best that Christine had left, better that she never return to discharge her promise to him. And just a moment ago, he had been content to consign Christine's promise as forgotten folly. But now, the true finish of the matter seemed so utterly anticlimactic: a few words spoken off stage between bit players.

Still, the only thing he ended up saying, somewhat satirically, was, "Erik does agree. Obviously."

Mojgan nodded and refolded the letter. "It is for the best, I suppose."

Erik grumbled a reply, and then turned to face her fully. "You, my dear, are starting to lose your subtle touch." She inquired as to his meaning, and so he continued. "You _knew_ what the Daroga had written before starting that conversation about burials and Christine and so on. What if I had said yes, have her come? Would you have told me of the letter?"

"Of course," she said. "Though your reply _did_ make the conversation easier." She met his glare evenly. "And, I feel obliged to point out, that you _started_ the conversation. I merely participated."

Erik grumbled again and returned to the piano.

"Shall I reply to Nadir for you?"

"As you please."

"He's also curious about when we might return to Paris," she said. "What should I tell him?"

"The first of October," Erik replied.

"That soon!" he turned again at the faint note of alarm in her voice. "Are you sure you don't want to take a few days after the theater opens? There may yet be things for you to do. Or at least, you might want time to arrange packing up what's here in the chateau."

"I believe you to be capable of that," he said. "There are many things that need to be taken care of in Paris." He spared a glance for her. "For one, we need to finally arrange new papers of identification for you. Time enough has passed, I think, for it to be easy. It is simply for you to decide who you are to be."

She looked, if not concerned, then at least somewhat abstracted. "It is still necessary, then? I thought perhaps I could just continue on as I am. But you do not think so?"

He did not think so, but his tongue refused to form those words, as well. "My dear woman, do you intend to weary me with questions?"

She was silent for a moment, and for a moment something like _hurt_ flickered across her face. But it was gone before Erik could be sure, and she smiled. "Apparently! But I haven't any more for the moment."

Erik's symphony decided that she was done for the evening. He pulled out the sheet music for Alkan's opus 39, and Mojgan retreated to a chair with a book. They did not speak again until it was time to bid each other goodnight _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone really think that Erik had the emotional maturity to deal with a, er, situationship like this? Because I didn't. Not yet. But he'll figure something out in the next four chapters. Probably. Unreliable narrators take it all.  
> Also, you better believe you could get a bustled skirt with pockets built in to it. Ladies have always wanted pockets.


	52. Not Worth the Journey

Dear Shadi,

I suppose I could have spared myself some anxiety by recalling that you have ever been the most unrepentant of bluestockings. I detected in your last letter a distinct lack of shock and outrage over the unconventional situation I found myself in with Erik in Rouen. (It raises some questions as to what you did during your Paris years; but as you have been a respectable matron for quite some time, I will forebear to ask.) Not that there was anything remotely untoward in our conduct, but if the city had known that we shared a house as friends and not as husband and wife… well, the trick was never discovered, and so there's an end to my confession.

Those were happy days I wrote to you of for the most part. It took us time to grow used to be around one another. And then, as soon as it seemed like we had found our footing, Erik fell into a black mood. It was not the first time I had seen him so, but those previous times had always been from a good distance. What had been an unfortunate quirk of my-acquaintance-Erik was now an… extraordinarily agonizing fact of my life.

He all but disappeared from my day-to-day life. I still went on my walks, tended the garden, and invaded the cook's sanctuary. I tried to be content, but my eyes were constantly caught on shadows, hoping one of them would be him. I thought of what he had told me of his father; I thought of the cuffs of his shirtsleeves turned up against the unrelenting heat. They revealed a white-on-white tangle of scars that had grown exponentially since the years in Mazandaran. Even the ordinary business of his work on the Rouen Opera House seemed to add to the collection, careless red scrapes and cuts that he paid no heed to.

For a brief time, I had felt the right to fuss and bandage them, with Erik looking on utterly amused. But no more.

What was worse, I had no idea what brought on this change. One moment, we were laughing over wine, and then it was gone. His eyes went dark, my heart skipped a beat, and then a ineffable change. I cannot forget his face—I know, I know, a curious turn of phrase for a masked man, but there it is—that first time he looked at me as if I had dealt him some painful physical blow. He half-flinched away, his eyes shadowed and blinking. I thought it would be a brief spell of ill-humor. _Those_ I had seen many of. I was wrong.

I found myself wishing I had Christine Daaé's extraordinary voice. Maybe then I could sing him out of his sullens. Maybe he would look at me, and the confusion of whether he should tolerate me next to his piano or not would dissolve. But the only gifts I had were my unremarkable, practical ones. I could put on the mantle of a chatelaine. I could direct the caretakers of the house to do things in a way I knew Erik would like. I could periodically show up to take his arm and let my even gaze tell the world, _he is just an ordinary man deserving of ordinary respect._

"That is a man who does not know what he wants," the housekeeper proclaimed one day. I had found myself in the kitchen, with the two older women. They were watching in somewhat horrified fascination as I candied orange peel and rinsed rice for shirin polo. I figured that I could tempt his sweet tooth, if nothing else.

"I can't agree with that," I replied. "Erik knows what he wants as much as anyone does."

"Even worse," she said. "Then he is a man who does not appreciate what he has."

The cook added her voice to this assessment, and I felt compelled to defend my poor absent Erik. "He's very clever. He's an extraordinary man."

"No," the housekeeper said, very voice very dry. "Just a man. You only say otherwise because you're all a woman and love him."

I had nothing to say to that. Whether they really believed it or not, the whole household operated on the premise that Erik was my husband. We were presumably one of those utterly antiquated couples who lived in almost entirely separate spheres, only meeting on occasion. But that did not preclude love, I supposed. I decided to be pleased that I had played my role so well. But it was a hollow pleasure in the face of Erik's abstraction.

The only thing to do was keep on. I would stay busy in the evening with my own projects, all the while listening to his marvelous _Joie_ symphony take shape. Sometimes I would fall asleep crying for the overwhelming beauty of it.

And then as suddenly as it had come, it went away. At least for the most part. Our last weeks in Rouen were so busy, I'm sure some things were lost in the rush. But what little time I spent with Erik was comfortable again. Only occasionally would he look at me as if he did not quite trust what he was seeing.

Returning to Paris weighed heavily on me. I had meant to spend my summer thinking of my next move, but I had not. I had used my time with reckless abandon, and felt that I was perhaps now to suffer for it. But I was determined not to repent of the way I had spent my time. I thought, _if I only ever have this summer of freedom without sorrow, I will at least enjoy it._ And it truly was without sorrow, as much as Nadir would have liked to think I was acting irresponsibly out of grief.

The last full day we were in Rouen, there was too much to do to give the future much thought. It's amazing how much ephemera one can collect in a summer. Erik and I had travelled light, and we had both moved around enough in our lives not to be overly sentimental. But for whatever reason, I found myself wanting to pack the old books that came with the house, and all the little adjustments we had made for our temporary comfort, and the dahlias and roses blooming irrepressibly in those first days of autumn. But even if I could have taken all these things with me, there was not time. The Rouen Opera was returning to the just-completed Théâtre-des-Arts, and Erik and I were attending.

It had been more than half a year since I had dressed to go out for an evening. Besides changing out the clothes I would walk or garden in for a clean afternoon dress, I seldom even dressed for dinner. Erik and I had not kept what could be called a formal schedule.

The housekeeper and the one maid both attended me that afternoon, more out of curiosity than to render any particular assistance. I fixed my own hair and was then laced tight and buttoned into my evening gown. Privately, I missed the kohl of my younger days. But it would not do to scandalize these Europeans.

Erik had been busy to the last, but I heard him return to the chateau in time to clean up and dress. He was quick, and I was just having my opera gloves buttoned up when he called up from the foyer, "Any time now, my dear!" I went down.

He stood waiting, impeccably dressed in his white tie and tails, and with that particularly well-crafted mask of ivory leather. He had all the trimmings of a gentleman: silk top hat in hand, pristine white gloves, a gold watch chain, one of the late-blooming white roses from the garden thrust through his buttonhole. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that he looked handsome, but I stopped myself lest he think I was mocking him.

Instead, I presented myself, "Well. Will I do?"

"You ask the strangest questions sometimes," he complained, "for you know very well that you are beautiful."

For all I had just thought that he would not believe me, he was the one who brought me up short. _Beauty_ was not a word much attributed to me, even in my youth. And I was no longer young, though I still _felt_ young and strong and probably no _less_ beautiful than I had been. I suppose the old housekeeper had been right: I was all a woman, and therefore very pleased to hear a compliment even if I did not think it was strictly true. Erik helped me into my wrap, and I paused for a moment to smooth out his lapels and straighten his boutonniere. "I was right," I told him, echoing early words. "We go quite well together."

He laughed at me, real laughter, and we went out to the hired carriage.

Erik, in fact, seemed to be in very high spirits that night. He teased me when he found out that I had only ever sat in the box seats, never with the main audience.

"I have sat up with the gods," Erik proclaimed, "and have also lingered beneath the trap doors. There is a particular melody to hearing opera from such out-of-the-way spots."

"But what do you _prefer?_ " I asked, teasing back.

"A private box, of course," he shrugged. We were not to have a private box that night, merely decent seats in the main audience. We really were pathetically lost, I realize in retrospect. Arriving to an event on time, mingling with the masses—these were not things either of us were particularly accustomed to, albeit for different reasons. Erik's good humor had given way to taut alertness, but I stayed with my hand fastened to his arm. There were a few odd looks to be sure, but if someone was impolite enough to stare, I would smile and they would turn away.

However, as the evening wore on, I found that I was the one growing more anxious. I could not help but scan the faces in the box seats, just in case there was someone that might recognize me. There was a rather large handful of government men in attendance, though they seemed to most be local as opposed to anyone I might have encountered in Paris. Still, as the overture from _La Dame Blanche_ came to a close and the orchestra made ready to strike up for the night's performance, I leaned over to whisper in Erik's ear.

"I feel like we're being terribly indiscreet," I said.

He chuckled. "Yes, terribly!" he followed my gaze to the collection of ministers in a prime box. "But we're gone first thing in the morning, so what does it matter?"

I allowed my face to express just what I thought of his cavalier attitude, and was met with twinkling eyes. "You are in love with danger," I muttered. As quiet as I was, I drew a disapproving glance from the woman sitting to my other side.

Erik, with those finely-tuned skills of ventriloquism, suffered no such censure. His last reply came as almost a whisper just next to my ear. "And yet, you came."

Which was true enough, and I genuinely did not foresee any dramatic unmaskings of my identity taking place. I settled in for the performance.

Erik never cared for Meyerbeer, and I had seen _Les Huguenots_ enough times to not be terribly excited for it. But the company poured their hearts into it that night, clearly ecstatic to resurrect their home stage that had been lost in flames, and so the hours went quickly by. Marguerite Baux, who Erik had heard many times on the stage of the Garnier, sang Valentine. She had a good falcon voice that showed to great effect in the smaller venue. I caught Erik looking up at the ceiling more than once, and could not help but recall his tale of falling ceiling beams during his early employment in the project.

The intermission was the time I was most dreading, as Erik led me out into the crowd. He was hailed by a few of the city officials and the opera management who knew him from the project. He maintained his good humor, and I could see that there were a few of them who brought up short by my presence. More than more person commented that they had not actually believed in the tales of the contractor's wife.

And they were right, I found myself thinking. I was not Erik's wife. But I was his friend. And if I made his life a little easier or added a little polish to his reputation by standing at his side, I was glad to do so.

We found ourselves in conversation with a little knot of fellows from the office of city works, and the talk was of a decidedly technical nature until we were joined by one of the mayor's chief aides.

"My goodness," the aide drawled, after he greeted us. "Little gypsy enchantress you have for a wife, Rossi! Wherever did you find her?" The tone was relatively complimentary, but Erik went completely rigid at the words.

I, however, knew how to play this game. "Alas!" I sighed, "Don't tell me my French is still so deplorable after so long!" The gentlemen switched quickly to gallant reassurances about 'my charming accent,' completely bypassing the question of where the accent was from.

The conversation turned quickly back to business, and one of the younger men asked Erik about his next project.

"My next project," Erik declared, "is taking Madame to Paris to visit her seamstresses."

I wanted to swat at him for saying something so absurd, but when I looked up at Erik, I found I could do nothing but smile. He looked to all the world like a man who doted on his wife, affectionate and indulgent. It took a moment to remember that he had that flair for stagecraft, that voice made for emotion. In a word, that he was a fantastic actor. But still, I smiled.

"Well," the young man continued, "when the bills for your lovely wife's lovely frocks start coming in, I beg you keep me in mind. My late lamented great-uncle has just saddled me with an estate of sorts out in Lillebonne—I'd sell the beastly thing off right away, but it won't get a fair price given the condition it's in. But, then again, if it's fixed up, perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to keep." It turned out that the young man had rather an ancient family name, for all his middling occupation.

"I will put your name on my list," Erik replied, his tone imperious but not unkind, "but I make no promises."

By then, it was time to return to our seats. I found that I could at last relax. At the end of the performance, the principal architect and the conductor were both awarded honors by the Minister of Public Instruction. I thought Erik did very well in confining his displeasure to a few discreet huffs. We did not stay to mingle afterwards and in a move that should not have surprised me, I found myself being pulled into a hidden service corridor to make a quick exit out of the building.

We stood for a moment at the side of the building and Erik looked up.

"Are you pleased with it?" I asked.

"It is a box," he lamented, "but it does its job well enough." He shook his head, but I could tell he was not displeased. "But therein is the human condition, I find!"

"And do you object to this human condition?" I asked as he found our carriage and helped me in.

"I feel that I should," he admitted. "But I have become reconciled to it. Or resigned, perhaps. Either way, I am contented."

Silence fell as the carriage pulled away with a jolt. I turned to stare at Erik, this peculiar man I had fallen in with. I reached out, I think to touch his shoulder, but he stopped me. He thought, I realized, that I had meant to touch his mask. We stayed that way for a long, quiet minute, his hand barely holding on to my wrist in the space between us. He released my hand, and I let it fall, taking just a moment to touch his in a way I hoped was comforting.

"I will miss this place," I told him.

"Will you, indeed?" he asked. No more overt cheeriness, but he did sound _contented_ , as he had said.

"I enjoyed being here with you," I offered, somewhat lamely. It was difficult to put into words what I had liked about being in Rouen with Erik, and having him sit next to me, staring, was not aiding the attempt. "It was nice to be settled."

"Ah," he murmured. "Well. We will attend to that in Paris. We will make our plans and set them in motion." He must have taken my silence as a show of nerves, for now he reached across to awkwardly pat my hand. "All will be well."

I was not nervous. I was silent because the question on my mind was, _are we making plans together?_ But I knew that we were not. That had never been the intention. It was a mere flight of fancy that had led me to riding Erik's coattails into Rouen. One could not stay flying forever.

And so we survived our gala occasion in Rouen—and so we survived Rouen. As we boarded our Paris-bound train, I felt like I was standing on quicksand.

Erik told me that he would be staying at his flat under the Opera again, but did not expect to be there very long. He had finished the sale of a property he had been holding onto and said the he meant to find a new one. And work? Who knew about work? I wondered if, when he got back into his strange little underground cottage, if he would want to stay again. His free time over the last weeks had gone back to music, and where better to compose?

Still, when he escorted me to the Rue de Rivoli, he bowed over my hand and said that he would see me soon. As I watched him descend the stairs, I felt oddly bereft.

Nadir, on the other hand, seemed genuinely glad to see me. We embraced like the old family we claimed to be, and I found myself wondering if we _said_ something was true long enough if it became so.

I had Darius's old room. He had moved into a small apartment in the adjacent building, and was working hard to improve it in the weeks before his wedding. He was still a regular sight in Nadir's home, but I supplemented the maid-of-all-work's salary to offset both his new responsibilities and the complications of my invasion.

It pleasant to be with Nadir again, though I missed my blooming garden and the towering forests of Normandy. And I missed Erik.

I took to cooking more to pass my time, and after I had been in Paris for a week, I set out a dinner for Darius to bring his fiancée to. Darius had done his best to keep a well-stocked pantry, but I made improvements as far as I could. There was bademjan and rice, salads and pickles, and on a whim I made sholeh zard again. I asked Nadir to make sure Erik was invited, but there was no response.

"Probably for the best," Nadir commented. I was taking a break from the kitchen, and we sat drinking tea in the late afternoon. "We don't want to scare Irène."

"It is better for her to grow accustomed to him," I replied. "If she means to attach herself to Darius, I think the rest of us will be hard to avoid."

"You never know with Erik," he shrugged in half-agreement. "He pops up at the damndest times. Or he disappears." He refreshed both of our teacups. "If he does so again, I do not know if I have it in me to find him once more!"

I meant to laugh. But as Nadir's words sunk in, so did a cold dread the likes of which I had seldom experienced in life. I knew—I was sure—that I would see Erik again, and soon. But what if he did take himself away without so much as a farewell? If Rouen had taught me nothing else, it was that Erik was unpredictable. I thought to myself, _well, it would be sad, but I will manage. I always do._ But I could not shake the fear, something like grief before there was a cause for grieving. If I had thought that I did not want to let go of my old friends when I found them in Paris before, it was nothing compared to this feeling. That had been mere unwillingness. This—this was much more.

I _could_ _not_ lose Erik. If I did, I knew my heart would be broken.

And so it was, fool that I am, that I was sitting in Nadir's parlor, in the lingering warmth of the early October afternoon, drinking tea when I realized that I was in love with Erik. There were no degrees in it, no steps from beginning to end. Just the realization that it had grown from a respectable sprout of friendship into something much larger and much stronger while I had not been paying attention.

I am no philosopher. I cannot tell you where love comes from, or why, or what it means. Is it, as some of the ancient Greeks might have said, the messenger between men and gods? _I am ashamed to call this love human,_ said Rumi, _and afraid of God to call it divine._ But then there is, I think, Pascal who claims we always love, and that in the very things from which love seems to have been separated, it is found secretly and under seal. None of it matters when one feels it.

All I can tell you is what it has been in my life: the fork in the road. We find ourselves in circumstances we did not choose, in situations we did not expect, with emotions that take us by surprise. And we must decide what to do. Do we marshal our passions and stay focused on some other, distant path before us? Or do we turn off onto that other road, knowing it may it may confuse and exhaust us, hoping it will yield sights of great beauty, trusting that the journey will be worth the effort? …Trusting that we will not take it alone?

As I look back on my life, I am almost surprised and almost ashamed of myself. You see, though I would like to be able to pride myself on my good sense, while I would like to be able to tell you that my head always ruled my heart, the simple fact is I always chose to love.

I did not need to love my melancholic Feridoon to be happy, but I took it as a matter of course. I did not need to love my madcap Reza, but it seemed silly not to.

I did not mean to love Erik, but when I saw the two roads before me, I could do nothing but veer off course and set my heart on him.

I tried to put all of this out of my mind when Darius arrived, looking neat as a pin, with his intended bride. I turned all my attention to trying to make Irène comfortable—I, too, had experienced the confusion of being in a room of foreigners with hardly a recognizable dish to be seen. But it was difficult. I could see the change in Darius, the lightness of his brow and brightness of his eye that had not been there a few months ago. And I wondered—is that same brightness to be found in my eyes? I thought not, for Darius knew where he stood with his beloved and I… did not.

It was a long and unrestful night. I thought of every reason I had for uprooting this unexpected tenderness. I thought of Erik in the harem. I thought of the mirrored torture chamber. I thought of Christine Daaé. I thought of myself: of my own moods, and memories of dark days. I could have reasoned my way out of love a hundred times before sunrise, had it not been for one quiet statement that punctuated every argument: _look at how far we have come._

The next morning, something like a miracle, I heard a familiar knock at the apartment door.

"So you've graced us with your presence," I heard Nadir say, "if you came looking for leftovers, there are none."

I did not catch Erik's reply, though his tone sounded acerbic. It made my heart sing. But I knew how to pull myself together and present myself in public. At least I thought I did—Nadir gave me a curious look when I came into the parlor. But Erik did not seem to take anything amiss. He straightened up when he saw me, bowed very properly over my hand, and said lightheartedly, "poor Mojgan! Am I forgiven for declining your invitation?"

"We'll see," I said, though there was nothing to forgive.

He chuckled. "I have been very busy! I have a new project—I decided to take on de Elloy-Toussanit's Lillebonne house. I go down next week, to see if my idea will hold," he said. "And I have been making inquiries about your situation. I should hear back quite soon about your new papers—" Nadir let his continuing disapproval be known by a cough, which Erik pointedly ignored. "Until then, I was thinking we should exorcise all that Meyerbeer. Come to the Garnier on Friday, and we'll take in _Faust_."

"My," Nadir commented. "You are full of decision, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes," Erik replied. I suspected him to be willfully ignoring Nadir's sarcasm. "What do you say, Mojgan?"

I was pathetically inarticulate. But I expressed approval for the project, thanks for the work done on my behalf, and acceptance of the invitation.

Erik took his leave soon afterward, citing once again that he was _very busy!_ After he left, Nadir turned to me and used that aged face of his to great effect. With proper paterfamilias spirit, he fixed me with a suspicious eye, and said, "I feel that those letters of yours may have left some things outs."

And so they did. And so they do, as you well know, my dear Shadi.

_Mojgan_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be a slight delay in the next update. I am being run ragged by doctors at the moment, and I want to make sure that the last three chapters get up in quick order. :)
> 
> Also, if anyone is curious, there is quite the extensive little volume about the Théâtre-des-Arts de Rouen (appropriately titled, [Histoire du Théâtre-des-Arts de Rouen : 1882-1913](https://archive.org/details/histoiredut00geis/page/n7/mode/2up)) wherefrom I gathered some of my details of the premier. Alas, since my command of French begins and ends with Latin roots, I am sure there are interesting bits I could not parse out. And I thought it interesting that another source basically said, the technical construction of the opera house in Rouen was second only to Garnier, which was really too large of a project to be a fair comparison. And that's why I decided to have Erik come and work on it.


	53. Over Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, this is it. All three final chapters are going up in one go. My most profound gratitude to my readers, and I hope you find the ending to your satisfaction. I, for one, will be glad to be done with This Monster.

Erik had a very satisfactory interview with his banker.

He wasn't sure if the banker agreed; it was the first time Erik had ever come in for a personal consultation instead of merely sending his scrawled instructions. He had grown accustomed over the summer to having more direct speech with those who worked under him. Oh, he might torment himself in the hours after the fact by remembering exactly _how_ the other person behaved, exactly _what_ they said, and wondering _why_ it had been so. But there was no denying the results. As long as he kept his tone civil and his temper in check, they would listen to Erik.

He was therefore able to leave the bank in a relatively short period of time with quite a bit more information on things like funds and annuities than he had walked in with. And what he had learned had pointed him to one word: freedom.

Perhaps not _great_ wealth, or opulence, but freedom nonetheless.

That was one concern to be crossed off his list.

The second was his favor to Mojgan. He knew that he could find someone in Paris to forge her new papers, but he thought it was always best to put as much distance between such dealings and _home_ as possible. Since it seemed that she meant to settle in France—perhaps near Nadir, he thought—he would rather not rely on the local demimonde. A few discreet inquiries revealed that the fellow who Erik had hired all those years ago may perhaps still be willing to work for a good price; Erik wondered if Mojgan would be amendable to going to Italy, or if it was better for him to go conduct the business on his own. Either way, he was willing to go. He had freedom enough for that, as well.

It seemed strange to think of favors in connection with Mojgan. They had never really had any debts between them, had they? It seemed that every service he had rendered her had worked out for his own good in the end. Look at Rouen: for all that the intent had been to give Mojgan a peaceful place to hide, Erik could not ignore the comfort she had brought to him there. For those few months, he had lived as any man might, both the joys and frustrations. It was not _perfect,_ as he had once thought it must be. But perfection, he had found, was not a requisite for contentment. And so, even though it was a temporary state of affairs, Erik thought it might be a treasure beyond reckoning. And yet, _she_ seemed to think that the courtesies he had extended to her were of value, that they were something to be repaid with good in return. Erik found the idea both appealing and off-putting. Appealing because, in all truth, he still liked to know he held some power in his life. And off-putting for the same reason—he was not sure that he wanted to claim such power over Mojgan.

Power over people, like perfection, was not the sure path to happiness he had once thought it to be. They had a way of eluding one's grasp, of damaging and being damaged in ways beyond Erik's desires. It was more responsibility than he wanted at this point in life.

So perhaps it was not a favor to be rendered. A service to be done? Perhaps. A gift? Erik found he liked the idea of that.

* * *

This time, he did not have her meet him at the opera by herself. He took a carriage to the Rue de Rivoli and played the proper escort. He had half-expected to see her in that wine-colored dressed she had been so enamored on but found her more discreetly attired.

"I remembered the climb," she said. "And the boat ride. And the storage room."

"You are a very sensible woman," he said admiringly.

"No," she sighed, "I don't think I am." Never the less, her forethought served them well as they made their way through the gate on the Rue Scribe and underwent all the trials she mentioned to get to Box Five. Mojgan, he noticed, seemed more relaxed this time. When last he had brought her to the Garnier, he could practically hear her heart hammering in the dark passageways. He was glad that no longer seemed to be the case.

Instead, tonight would be _his_ test. He had long been fond of Gounod, for no unpleasant memories had ever been attached to the music. Until— he had shared his favorites with Christine, and in doing so had dampened some of his own pleasure in them after her leaving. He could bring out Gounod again on his piano, but could he sit and listen to _those_ songs on _that_ stage?

"Have you seen _Faust?_ " he asked Mojgan as they waited for overture to strike up.

"Oh, yes," she said happily. "It is terribly irreligious and immoral, and very beautiful besides."

The first act proceeded well enough, and when the lighting brightened on Marguerite with her spinning wheel he was able to dispassionately approve of the staging. The second act passed, and then the third. Their Marguerite sang a fair _Roi de Thulé_ , but her Jewel Song left something to be desired. They usually did.

Mojgan made for a good companion, though she was more of an enthusiast than a critic. Erik idly thought, _she could learn._ But then, why? There was something refreshing about her simple enjoyment of the show.

In Act Four, Erik found himself wincing at Faust's debaucheries far more than he had in the past. And then the fifth act, with its bacchanalia and ballets. But even the devil could not make such sensate pleasures last, not in the face of the beloved Marguerite. It was almost as if Erik was seeing the drama unfold for the first time.

 _My heart is overcome with terror_ , Faust sang and Erik agreed.

 _Yes—it's you—I love you,_ sang Marguerite, and Erik thought he might agree with her as well.

 _Stay alert, or you'll be lost!_ Ah, there he was. Méphistophélès. Perhaps Erik agreed with him more than anyone else. _Tarry any longer, and I will no longer involve myself!_

The company put forth a commendable effort into the trio, but Erik knew that many of the patrons were like him. They had the echo of something finer, something transcendent stuck to the _radiant angels_.

And yet… Erik found he could still sit back and _enjoy_ the show. He released a slow breath and looked over at Mojgan. She was fixed on the stage, blinking in time to orchestra. He almost laughed. He did smile, and she caught that and smiled back. His heart was full of relief. At last.

_Judged!_

As the chorus of angels began, Erik leaned over. "That is our exit, Madame, if you do not mind."

She nodded and let Erik usher her into the secret passage of the pillar. By unspoken consent, they started downwards. He meant to take her to the Rue Scribe, but as he readied to the boat, she said, "It's early yet, Erik. I have missed our talks. Do you think you can stand my presence for a while longer?"

"That is hardly in question," he replied. "But I warn you, the flat is not fit for company at the moment," he pushed the little boat off into the water.

"Then I must see it. You know I'm good at bringing things into order."

"Order? It probably never will be again. I'm tearing the place apart."

"But why?" She was not loud, but her voice echoed weirdly off of the cavernous walls. Erik almost laughed—how often had he been tormented by that selfsame echo of _why, why why?_

"Because I do not need it," he said simply, "but I would like to have some of the bits and pieces."

"Like your mother's furniture."

He blinked. Sometimes it surprised him how much he had said to her over time, and how much of it she remembered. "Yes. Some of it, at least."

"Do you think that, given the chance to relive your life, you would still leave home so young?" she asked. "Knowing what you know of the world now—being a man grown, and understanding that your parents would not have wanted you to go?"

"Is that what I understand?" he sighed. "I do not know. There were certainly crueler houses than the one I was born into. But as for whether I would do so again?" He rowed harder. "I will take you to the house, and show you my latest project, and perhaps that will answer the question."

When they arrived, her lit the lamps in the hall and parlor, and stoked up the embers of the fire. He had pulled many of his chests out of storage and they littered the room like Bluebeard's treasury. In the center of it, in what he supposed was the place of honor, were what he had pulled out from his time in Persia.

She kneeled amongst the scattered goods, a light hand ghosting over the piles. Cashmere so finely woven it settled almost like silk. Leather books with vellum pages, illuminated with real gold. And gold—gold as yellow as a field of jonquils, glinting even in the half-light of the fireplace. Erik awkwardly lowered himself to the floor besides her. He sorted through the gold with ease, knowing exactly what he was looking for. It was hiding under the coiled chain the Sultana had given him. He pulled out the ruby ring.

"I am sorry it was mixed in with all of the other things," he said, holding it up. The stones glinted true red, without any touch or purple or pink. "But I could not bear to look at _any_ of it for the longest time." There was another pile, tossed a little further away than the rest. Strings for a variety of instruments, made of catgut for the most part. As he had sorted them earlier, he found that a few still had blood dried on them.

He had been in the habit of carrying such a length of bow string in a pocket for so long that he sometimes forgot what it had been—where it had started. That his use of the weapon had been sanctioned by the authority of the land was of little comfort now. He could not change the number of men that had fallen to his lasso. He could only lay these strings aside and use their fellows for their intended purpose alone: music.

Mojgan brought him back to the present. "But you can bear to look at them now?"

He nodded. "They are the steps of my life. I cannot retrace them and decide where to leave off and take another path. You asked if I would have stayed in my childhood home longer? It does not matter. I left young, so very young, and it has led me here. And by the account, I cannot rate Persia as any worse than Russia—or Tonkin—or even Paris. Even if I could choose to undo it, I do not think I would. In fact, it may have done me more good than harm in the long run."

"I hope so," she murmured. "I truly hope so."

The silence stretched on too long and Erik arose. "Wine?"

She laughed. She was pressing a hand to her forehead, like she had a headache. "Please."

He used the few minutes it took to go to the kitchen and find a decent bottle to collect himself. They were just things, he reminded himself, those mementos of Persia. Part of a past that led him to today. Today was not so bad, was it?

He returned to find Mojgan now on the divan, fiddling with the ring. "It used to be loose," she complained, accepting the wine glass.

"You are not nineteen anymore," he replied. "Aren't you glad of that?"

"When you put it that way, yes," she said. "It was difficult being nineteen. And twenty-nine, for that matter. I suppose that thirty-nine really has served me the best out of all of them." She laughed quietly. "I think I might have you to thank for that, Erik."

"I don't know how old I am," Erik confessed, "but I suppose I must also say this has been one of my better years. I could happily stay here for the rest of my life."

"Oh, don't say that," Mojgan said, "not when we just saw what happened to poor Doctor Faust. Eternal youth is not worth the price."

Erik snorted. "What of eternal middle age? No, that is little better. But I've long had an affection for Faust. I suppose it has started to fade, though the music remains."

"Why do you say that?"

"I used to be able to sing Faust with my whole soul," he said, "for I thought we were alike. I was sure I had sold my soul—or had it sold for me—at some young and foolish age. And I thought that perhaps it would have been worth it, for love." He shrugged, and poured more wine. "And then I realized I was Méphistophélès. And I did not know what to do with that." He tried to wave his melancholy away with a joke, "He is a bass, after all, and I am merely a poor tenor."

"No one who has heard you sing would ever call you a _poor_ tenor," Mojgan said with a smile. "And as for being Faust or the devil… I believe that you may be in a different opera altogether."

"Oh? And which one would you cast me in?"

"One that ends happily," she said simply.

Without anything to say to that, he drank his wine. "You told me once that you did not think you were a creature made for happiness. If that is true of you, then it is doubly so for me." The wine had seeped under the lip of his mask, and did his best to dry it with his handkerchief. "I don't have all the essential parts, as you well know."

"If not happiness, then why not love? You have all the parts you need for that. To be accepted and have hope for the future—those you possess, Erik. You can make something with that."

He stilled at her words. He folded his handkerchief and slipped it back into his pocket slowly. "Love is not something that ends well. You cannot make it into something better than it is."

"I cannot agree with that. Is it not the hunger of every human soul? To be accepted for what we are, and loved for what we could be?" she murmured. "Who does not want to have someone look at their quirks and caprices with kindness, and still say— _something fine can be built with that._ Not change, as such. Not metamorphosis where the caterpillar is consumed into a butterfly and made unrecognizable. But the marble that a craftsman may glory in, a block to build with, hewn to display its patterned nature to best advantage. _"_

So that was love to her. He could not agree with her any more than she did with him, though the words were pretty enough. He commented, "Some marble is easier to work with than others."

"Yes," she admitted. Her glance flashed over to Erik, and she grinned. "But I have been to Florence and seen David there. Difficult marble at its finest."

"Yes, David is a fine fellow," Erik said primly. He gave in after a pause. "Perhaps I am fit to make up a very nice tombstone. Never mind what I am now."

"Come, now. A tombstone? I'd say you're at least fit for a grand old mausoleum." She quieted, and when she spoke again, her voice was serious. "You are a man who has suffered much. You have not been able to live as other men have, and sometimes you practically act like a child because of it. You are brilliant beyond my reckoning, and I think you sometimes despise the rest of us for being so small, but how could it be otherwise? You do not always have the best taste in friends, but I have never seen you act disloyally to those who care about you. You take in the ugly parts of the world, and can put out things of beauty instead. You eat too many sweets and keep the strangest waking hours—but if these little things bring you some pleasure in a painful world, I would gladly bring you cakes at daybreak anytime you please." She had never stopped looking at him as she spoke, her gaze even and earnest and—yes, kind. Now, though, her eyes lowered, as if she was embarrassed. "That is what I see as you are now. I think… something very beautiful could come of it."

Erik listened to her, to every word that was so obviously carefully chosen. He had met her eyes, where there was no mockery or deceit to be found. And now he stared at her downcast profile, with its flying eyebrows and eyelashes, the sloped nose and the short lip. Always pretty, but never a great beauty. Somehow, he liked her more for that. He chose his own words as carefully as she had. "I have long believed you to be… very kind, Mojgan. Kinder than most. But you and I are also in an old habit of joking with one another—not many would do so either, and I take it as another sign of your kindness." He paused, waiting until she would look at him again. As soon as she did, he said: "I hope you are too kind to joke now."

"Oh," she breathed. "How could I joke about something like _this?_ "

Truthfully, Erik wasn't entirely sure what _this_ was. It sounded like a lot of pretty words, and he did not know if he could trust a single one of them. And yet—when had Mojgan ever lied to him, or misled him at all? "If not a joke—then, why?"

"Why?" she repeated. "I can tell you why _not._ It is not because you are a familiar face in a sea of strangers, though you are. It is not because you have been a source of comfort to me in this chosen exile of mine, though you have been. It is not because I cannot live without a husband, because I have and can. I suppose the best I can say is, I like having you in my life and would like to keep you. And I have seen how having a woman at your side can ease your way in the world, and I would like to be able to give you that. But it is your choice, azizam. There is no debt between us. I offer something freely. You may take it or decline it—freely."

More pretty words, thought it seemed to Erik that only one really stood out: _sweetheart._ He had never heard her say that, to anyone. His mind was a blur, as if an image of every time he had ever seen her was flying across a grand stage like scenes in a play. He saw her as the unattainable dream of having his own little wife to sit next to in a garden and worry over his health. He saw her holding up to his harshness without losing her own softness. He saw her simple willingness to trust him when she had no reason to do so. He saw her next to him, morning, noon, and night and always, always kind.

He had never longed for her, as he had for Soraya. He had never loved her, as he Christine. And yet, where was the Sultana now? Where was Christine? …and where was Mojgan?

"Is it to be a marriage of convenience, then?" he asked, his voice very dry and somewhat mocking.

She shrugged, but her voice did not lose its earnestness. "Is that what you want, Erik?"

That… was not a question Erik had ever considered in great depth. It had always been a pleasant little dream: finding a woman who could care for him, who he could dote on. A wedding, a wedding mass to compose. Walks on Sundays and card tricks in the parlor. The reality of living with her had been different. Better? But he learned long ago not to torture himself with visions of anything further. And yet, was it possible that his faultless ear was deceiving him? For it sounded like he could have all that for the asking. All that, and more. Real friendship. Real companionship. They had stood on the precipice of that so many times in recent months, as it was. What was it she had said before? _Someone who knows. Someone who does not need an explanation._ Erik had never been very good at explaining himself, anyway.

"Would it be a real marriage?" he asked, quietly.

She looked at him somewhat quizzically. "Is there any other kind?"

He could not help himself. He laughed. "Oh, Mojgan. You have gone about this all backwards. Fine ladies do not ask poor corpses to marry them."

"They do," she said, "when they love them."

"You throw that word around very easily," he murmured, though it in fact shocked him to the core to hear it said aloud and towards him.

"But not lightly," she replied. She reached out and took Erik's hand in her own. "And I do not need to hear it repeated to me, to know it to be true in my own heart."

The clock on the mantle struck midnight, and Erik half expected the world to set itself back to rights. But he supposed he made for a poor Cinderella: Mojgan looked as serious and tender as she had the hour before.

He took a deep breath. "You know, my dear—there's still time if you wanted to marry Darius instead."

If she had paused, or baulked, or protested, Erik would have turned all of her wild fancies away and let the whole idea stay stuck in the day previous. But she did none of those things, as such.

She laughed, merry and true. "I suppose I could! But this is not a matter of first and second choices, Erik. If the idea displeases you, I will not go around offering my hand until someone takes it. I will be your friend, no matter what."

They sat for a long time. Words had deserted both of them: Mojgan because she had said everything she had wanted to, and Erik because he had no idea how to respond.

"Nadir will kill me," Erik said at last, staring at the ever-ticking clock. He stood and helped Mojgan up. "He will well and truly take my head."

"I assure you, this is not the first time I've stayed up past one," Mojgan replied.

"No. No, Mojgan," he helped her into her cloak and put on his own overcoat. "Not for returning you at a late hour." He found he could not speak with her eyes boring into him, and so turned back to the rack to select a different hat. "The idea does not displease me."

She startled him all of a sudden, and the only thing he could think was—a kiss on the forehead was _not_ the full sum of earthly happiness.


	54. And Sea

Autumn in Paris was unpredictable, but it was also quiet and peaceful.

Nadir, who appreciated the social niceties that prompted so many to now call him _Monsieur Lepersan_ , enjoyed the fact that he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. It allowed him a leisurely morning in which to take his adopted cousin to task for coming home in the smallest hours of the morning.

"It is a good thing I do not believe in ghosts," he commented, "else I would hardly sleep for the dread of Feridoon haunting me." He spooned an extra helping of sugar into Mojgan's tea before handing it to her. "Or your father."

"You never knew my father," she pointed out, accepting the tea with good grace.

"I didn't need to know the man to know he would not care to see his daughter off gallivanting with a known libertine."

"Are you certain 'libertine' is the word you are looking for?" her brow was furrowed. "I think that may have some connotations that are not strictly—"

"Spare me," Nadir said in Persian, just so there would be no further quibble over vocabulary.

She raised her hands in surrender. "I stand before God with a clean conscience."

"That may be," he conceded, "but do you stand before Him with your full mental faculties?"

"I am a woman," she proclaimed. "Do I have those?"

Curse the girl for making him laugh. "I have done. Erik deserves you."

"And I him," she said with a slight nod. "Have I your blessing, cousin?"

"Of course," he said, even as he shook his head, "you will need it."

"Do you mean to spend the whole morning taxing me over this?" she asked. The peaceful set of her expression led Nadir to believe she would not actually object to this. Lovers, he knew, were inexhaustible in their patience to speak of their beloveds.

He shook his head, and claimed business in the city. "The Embassy forgot to authorize my stipend again, so I shall go pester them."

"Does that happen often?" Mojgan asked.

"Often enough to be irritating. It was late last month, and so I am disinclined to be tolerant this month, for all I'm in the good graces of my landlords," he shrugged.

"You should have taken something from the trunk," she said. "If you had written to me about it, I would have told you to."

"Trunk? What trunk?"

"Didn't Erik bring you my trunk to store?" she asked.

"Yes," Nadir said slowly. "It's in the pantry."

"The pantry! Never tell me that that shelf covered in burlap is my truck!" she sounded extremely exasperated. "I've been storing bags of potatoes on top of it."

Nadir spread his hands. "I thought you knew. I thought Darius—" he caught himself. If there was anyone more besotted that Mojgan at the moment, it was Darius. It was a wonder any of them were getting fed or clothed. Nadir could only be grateful that Darius's intended mother-in-law was of too venerable an age for anyone to suggest that _he_ turn his thoughts to romance.

Mojgan laughed. "Did you not look in it?" she asked, which Nadir replied to with an indignant negative. "Did Erik not _tell_ you?"

"Erik disclaimed any knowledge of its contents," Nadir replied.

Mojgan made a gesture as if to ward off a headache and heaved a sigh of profound frustration. "Tell me, Nadir—do all brilliant men have such… _adaptable_ memories?"

"I am not the man to ask," Nadir said drily, "as Erik would be quick to point out, I have no pretensions to brilliance."

Another sigh. "You were right. I'll need all the blessings I can gather. Well. Let's see what you've been keeping in your pantry for the last several months." He followed her into the kitchen, and she waved the maid away to clear off the breakfast table. Off came the potatoes and off came the burlap coverlet. She kneeled and undid the locks under Nadir's eye. The trunk was filled with smaller, mostly flat boxes. Mojgan selected one of these at random, unfastened the clasp, and propped open the lid. Nestled amongst stark velvet lining rested a magnificent matched set of opal jewelry. Another random box revealed a similarly grandiose garnet parure. There were well over a dozen cases in the trunk.

"Are they all like that?" Nadir demanded. He may not have been in the habit of buying gold and jewels but he knew enough to start a running tally in his head of their value.

"No. I put the better ones towards the bottom," Mojgan said.

"I don't begrudge a lady her trinkets," Nadir said, sounding flippant to his own ear, "and I'm certainly glad that you have your, er, savings there. But _why_ do you have an entire jewelry shop's worth of goods in one train trunk?"

"Reza liked to make a statement," she said simply, and closed the lid.

Nadir also sighed, and realized with a start that that particular gesture Mojgan had just made of pinching the bridge of her nose and screwing closed her eyes must have been picked up… from him. He immediately dropped his hand. "I am not going to be able to sleep with that here."

"Oh, no," she agreed, "We'll be doing something with it. In the meantime…" she rummaged around and pulled out a few cases. "Let's look for something to give Darius's bride."

* * *

Nadir passed on their selections: gold bangles to serve as _mahr_ , a pair of turquoise earbobs, and a gold tiepin likewise set with turquoise. Darius had handled each item reverently.

"They're all from home, aren't they?" he murmured. Nadir nodded. He also passed on an extra gift from Mojgan's absurd treasury: enough pure gold to be melted down into wedding bands. "It's very kind of her—of you, as well, agha."

Nadir demurred. In fact, Mojgan had been quite forceful in her gift-giving. Nadir was now in possession of a necklace that Mojgan claimed was very ugly but also set with several exquisitely clear and bright diamonds. It would be easy, she said, to pawn off the jewels as Nadir needed or wished. He had objected strongly to such a gift, but she merely shrugged, and, well—Nadir had sacrificed one of his least favorite books to the creation of a hidden compartment to keep the diamonds. He was at least able to put them to good use: the smallest of the stones gave him the pleasure of helping Darius furnish his bridal apartments. Mojgan may have smiled knowingly at this transfer of largesse, but made no objections.

The day came when Erik appeared to collect her.

"I suppose it is pointless to remind you to treat her well," Nadir sighed.

"Not pointless," Erik chirped. "Merely insulting."

Nadir shook his head. "No insult was intended, Erik. I am… pleased for you."

"As am I," Erik said. He did look pleased. No mask could hide it, especially not when Mojgan came into the parlor, tying on her hat. She greeted Erik with a smile that made her look about twenty, and then offered her hands to Nadir.

"Nadir said he would give us his blessing," she declared.

" _You,_ " he corrected, " _you_ my blessing, joonam."

"Ah, but _we_ will need it," she protested, and kissed his cheek.

"Go on, then," Nadir grumbled. "Go on and be good! It is all my fault, anyway. I am the one who went to Nijni Novgorod and heard you sing in the first place."

Erik chuckled, and raised his hat slightly. "And I am very glad you did, Daroga!"

* * *

Darius was still handy with a needle. They both turned up to the council offices on the appointed day in neat morning suits; Nadir's dark grey, and the groom's navy. Darius had his new pin as a flash of bright blue in his tie, whereas Nadir wore an older piece, emerald and pearl, fastened so as not to be overly showy. Nadir thought of the strange path the emeralds had taken to come to him—from the hand of Nasir al-Din Shah, to the son of his mother's cousin, to the little wife who would in turn claim Nadir as _her_ cousin, _her_ family. Rather like this boy of his, who had come to him motherless and fatherless and stood with him through thick and thin.

In turn, Nadir stood with Darius until the moment Iréne arrived with her mother and a family friend. In that instant, he was forgotten and Darius had eyes for no one besides his bride.

It was as it should be.

He could appreciate the pragmatic view of marriage ceremonies in France. It certainly uncomplicated matters that they did not need to involve a church. And it further confirmed the opinion he had formed of Irène—she would learn how to live with Darius, just as he would learn to live with her. It was not an easy path they were choosing, but Nadir could not regret it.

Nor could he regret Erik and Mojgan. _That_ he could only shake his head. And perhaps also thank whatever good angel kept watch over fools and madmen that they had lived long enough to take solace in one another. He wished them godspeed on their journey into Italy.

They parted ways after the ceremony; Darius and Irène for a few days away, the mother left in the care of the friend, and Nadir to his own devices. He looked up at the fine autumn sky.

It was a different sky than the one he grew up seeing in the wide sandy deserts of Yazd, or over the blue Caspian. And he supposed it was a small life in Paris, for a man raised to serve the Pivot of the Universe. He was not a khan here, nor a daroga. But he was still Nadir, and he still had his dignity, and so much more besides.

He straightened his astrakhan and started home toward the Rue de Rivoli.


	55. Not Worth the Toil!

My Dear Shadi,

_Running away with Erik_ was very different the last time around. To begin with, we actually were running away _together._ That made the trip a pleasanter one, even if it had still been prompted by necessity. We would while the hours away talking about what we would do in the future, instead of studiously avoiding the pain of the past. And then, in reality, we were not _running away_ at all. Instead of trekking through dangerous forests, fearful of detection by anyone, we traveled in first class train compartments. When we would break our journey, we would do so at whatever the best hotel in the town might be. In Dijon, we strolled out early to watch the dawn light play on its grand old Gothic cathedral. In Geneva, we took a whole afternoon to boat out onto the lake. By the time we got to Florence, the first thing we did was not find Erik's old friend, but instead to spend the day in the city's famous piazza.

It was everything I most liked about my life after Persia, and none of the things I disliked. And it was all made better—much better—by having Erik there. It was the element that had been missing ever since I had left my father's house: someone to share my life with. I am not sure which of those words deserves the greater emphasis: _share, my,_ or _life._ One of them had always been missing before, but now they all came together and harmonized beautifully. No longer alone, no longer a side note to someone else's life—we were both building our lives for something like the first time. We stood together because we wanted to.

He had labored over my name for most of the trip, there being no equivalent to Mojgan in any of the common European tongues. He came up with some rather poetical ideas, but in the end we agreed that my papers should show something more innocuous. Italian, we decided—it would serve us better to have my name seem a bit foreign when we returned to Normandy.

Besides tempering some of Erik's artistic impulses, I did not much care what exactly my new legal name would be. These Latin letters have ever felt foreign to me—the whole concept of a surname was somewhat alien. And, besides, I knew I would always really be _Mojgan_. And so we ended up one something very ordinary and common, which in turn tumbled into the French _Marie-Jeanne_ after many years anyway. That Italian last name he had used in Rouen served just fine: it was the easiest one for me to pronounce out of his usual options.

Erik went out early one morning, and returned with news that everything would be taken care of in a few days. Anyone who might on the off-chance look at me and ask if I was once _la Khatoun_ who came from some exotic harem would instead be confronted with proof that I was just another dark-eyed signora from the heel of Italy. (Luckily, I was never forced to put my Italian thus to the test.)

The 'artist' (forger, let's be plain) Erik employed for this service also proved helpful in making other arrangements. Erik told him that we wanted to be married quickly and quietly, and the man was able to organize it suitably. He made some cheeky comments on how much we had already been in each other's company, which Erik did not take in good stead, but disaster was averted.

And so I found myself married for the third and last time, this time in some little Catholic parish in Tuscany. The words and rites meant nothing to me, and yet, when I think of all my marriages—it was the wedding that meant the most. I vowed vows under a name that was not mine, but for the first time, I made them to man I knew, and respected, and already cared about deeply. I did not sign a contact, and accepted no _mahr._ My veil was perhaps the most familiar thing—it reminded me of my old hajib. But none of that mattered. I could tell that everything from the church to the music to the flowers I held meant the world to Erik, and Erik was fast becoming the world to me. He slipped the old ruby ring onto my left hand, and I knew I was his, and he was mine. The words did not matter.

Our wedding day was leisurely, spent picnicking in our best clothes. It was still warm, and dry for the day at least. The olives were just purpling, and there were pomegranates just turning to their darker red—an unexpected touch of past days that we could now allow to be pleasanter memories. He bought me a lute, and helped me play love songs on it. We walked back to our rented villa, arm in arm as the sunset brought on a chill. He left me alone for a long time once we were there, and I was forcibly reminded of when he asked, _would it be a_ real _marriage?_

I left my door open and I put away my bridal clothes. I considered that I might need to go to him, but decided to wait a little while longer.

Eventually, he came in. ( _If I had left it up to my courage, I would have stayed away,_ he later said. _So instead, I depended on your kindness._ ) He stole in so quietly that I did not realize he had entered the room until he was standing behind me. I was sitting at the vanity, brushing out my hair. I didn't turn, but found his gaze in the mirror and held it. Painfully slowly, and with trembling hands, he lifted off his mask and set it next to my forgotten hairbrush.

He smiled at me in the mirror, ever so slightly, and I could not help but smile back.

We knew from the start that we would go to Lillebonne. Rouen had served its purpose, but we found that Normandy was as good a place as any to start in on our new lives. It had been easy for Erik to convince the young owner of that old house that it would take too much money to renovate for a profitable sale. He had offered a very fair price for the estate as it stood, and was accepted with alacrity. Its restoration would be his last great construction project.

Nadir declined to follow us, though he would visit. He was content in his same little apartment, with Darius and his wife a few doors down. I think he really did end up as a sort of father to us: satisfied to see the next generation settled at last. He enjoyed chatting with the police commissioner over coffee, and sending the occasional student of opera history on wild goose chases concerning the Garnier's old ghost.

You, my dear Shadi, were a surprise, but perhaps the best and happiest surprise there could have been. It had never occurred to me—or Erik—that a child might follow a marriage, though that is the usual way of things. A woman does not expect her firstborn to come along with her third husband. But, here you are.

Your father named you: _Happiness._ I think the moment he laid eyes on you, you chased away every last shadow and fear in his heart. I would have never imagined he would give you a Persian name, but you took away the sting of, well, everything and left only sunshine. (Your other name, that sensible French thing you never use, was my idea.) He counted your fingers and toes, as fathers must have done since time immemorial. He counted your nose, too, which may not be quite so common. I am still of the opinion that you inherited the nose he was supposed to have, rather more aristocratic-looking than my own.

And he sang. I wonder if that is where some of your perfectionist frustration with music comes from? As talented as you are, I think you must live with that echo of perfect music somewhere in your soul. I can never forget it, though I heard it but once, and have no hope of ever recapturing it in this life.

For those next few years, our lives were filled with so much joy. We had been content together, two friends who had found their peace in an unexpected place. Peace and contentment make fine soil for love to grow in. But you were the rain and sun that made it blossom. That is what your early life was made of: peace, and contentment, and love—and happiness. Perhaps that is also why you are still so quick to smile, to laugh and sing, even in the face of hardship. (I think that also came from your father's blood: another thing he was supposed to have but that life stole from him.)

Perhaps now that you have read more of where Erik and I came from, you will realize what a gift that is. Life is a gift to start with—but joy? A priceless one. Hard to find, harder to hold on to. But we clung fiercely to the joy we found, and to you. You are a gift.

We haven't always quite seen eye to eye on every choice you have made in life. It is difficult, for a farmer's daughter just clever enough to survive, to keep up with the brilliance that came so easily to you and your father. Another confession: that is why I spent so much time reading with you when you were young. We were both getting our education. You, of course, surpassed me in quick order.

I wasn't quite sure how things were going to work out when you chose to leave the Sorbonne for your young man. I thought a husband was a funny thing to pour all your talents into, even though that's more or less what I had done my entire life. I thought you might like to do something… more. But you did do something 'more.' I should have trusted the inheritance of your father's mind. Genius is not merely a matter of sums and languages and art and dreams wrought into reality. I should have known you were clever enough to know where your happiness would lie. Your father, too, craved nothing more than the comforts of home and family and his virtuoso soul best flourished there. You know the music he wrote while we were all together. Genius may be too small a word. So I am glad you have your (no longer quite so) young man, and that he has you, and that you are both free to shine as brightly as you please with one another. Erik would have liked that.

I am sorry your father died when you were still so young. I would have liked him to have lived to see you lengthen your skirts and pin up your hair. He would have taken as much pride in your doe-eyed beauty as he did your clever mind and (his words from memory) _already quite excellent taste in music._ He also would have been of much more help to you than I was when you decided you wanted to do your own translation of Galileo. Even more so, I would have loved to see him give you away at your wedding. Did he ever play any of his wedding masses for you? His were the only _Kyries_ that could move me.

But it was not within our power to make those things happen. He would joke in those last few weeks that his brilliance had always been too great to be contained in mortal form. Privately, I think we both knew that his body had never quite been right for this world, and that he had never had a chance to take care of it as he should have. He tried to keep that from you as best he could. I never knew if that was the right thing to do or not. But that was Erik: he really could use that voice of his to convince you of just about anything. And if what he wanted to convince you (and me, and probably himself) of was that our happiness was not at an end, I certainly was not going to stop him. We had lived on borrowed time long enough to know how to make the most of it.

Time, too, is a gift. Perhaps it is the most precious commodity of all. With enough time, miserable children can become happy men. Strife can give way to peace. Barren soil can be tilled and tended to until love can grow in it. We had enough time, though, God in heaven knows, we wanted more. We always want more, and the trick is to be content with what we have.

Thank you for your generous offer, but I will not be following you and your family to America. This is however one life choice of yours I see a great deal of wisdom in. 1915 is not turning out to be any kinder than its predecessor.

Do not worry for me. I have, you see, survived a great deal. Not _quite_ so much as your father, but few can claim to have done so. I am glad for having had the adventure, for it led me here. I am settled, truly, in my life. I am putting the punctuation on my story. You are the next chapter, and how wonderful a chapter it will be.

With all my love,

Your mother,

_Mojgan_

* * *

_Ah, seek the treasure of a mind at rest_ _  
And store it in the treasury of Ease;  
Not worth a loyal heart, a tranquil breast,  
Were all the riches of thy lands and seas!_

_-_ Hafez, Not All the Sum of Earthly Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is that. Thank you so much for sticking with the story: especially those of you who were around in 2014. Sorry it took so long to finish! And now I return to the black hole from whence I came.


End file.
